View All IssuesNovember 15, 2005
The Eschatologist: How To Panic In 3 Seconds Flat
Fred Miller had been awake all week, strung out on hyper-caffeinated Bawls and NoDoz. Today was his final doctoral dissertation defense. He knew that he should have slept before going in front of the committee, but he couldn't help himself. A final few hours to review his notes and presentation couldn't hurt.
He walked confidently, though bleary-eyed, into the room, where the dour defense committee was arranged in a semi-circle around his chair. He placed the first poster board up on the easel. "On The Weight Interaction of Various Jovian Satellites".
"Pardon me, Mr. Miller. Should that not read 'mass'?"
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November 11, 2005
The Eschatologist: A Differential Disagreement
Gottfried burned with anger. He crumpled Issac's latest letter. That bastard would not get the satisfaction! He raged about the small room, kicking at his desk and scattering research notes to the floor.
He uncrumpled the letter. Breathe in, breathe out.
Thirty four years. That was a long time to be angry.
Fuck him, he thought, and tore the letter to shreds.
"History will vindicate me, and not him!" Gottfried sat down and checked his notes again - November 11, 1675. He was first!
Fuck Newton and his stupid apple.
Once more, with passion, he scribbled out y= f(x).
Beautiful...
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November 10, 2005
The Eschatologist: Oh, John! Oh, Marsha! Oh no.
It was common to leave a memory of a torrid, illicit affair out in public anonymously. This was prohibited by law, but wasn't really enforceable, and was demanded by the standards of the community.
Even when such affairs sputtered, remembering the event was still expected to teach a lesson to the town youth; a warning not to repeat earlier mistakes.
Indeed, notes would be altered to reflect the changing relationship.
In fact, for John, boredom quickly supplanted an earlier horror regarding Marsha. He visited their marker in the middle of the night, and appended a "Sl-" to the previous note.
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November 09, 2005
The Eschatologist: In Their Own Image
He turned the chest cavity over in his dirty, reddened hands. Snorting with irritation, he threw the torso down and cursed.
"Artificer! I have more parts!"
He looked up and grimaced at the canine headed thing rolling in a cart of extra limbs - arms, legs, heads. They'd been at work at them all night, and the overtime was killing his normally pleasant demeanor.
"Leave them!" The cowering dog fled immediately.
"Wait... these are all wrong!" He tossed the cart across the cavern, smashing the flawed work.
Hephaestus hated those pigfuckers on Olympus whining about new worshippers, even artificial ones.
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November 08, 2005
The Eschatologist: An Early Warning Detection System
"It's called being fashionably late, love."
"You know how I am, John. I hate being late."
"We make a grand entrance when everyone's already arrived."
"What a bad idea! What will people say?"
"We're decked out in our finest - top hat, tails, and jewels in plenty!"
"What will I wear when we're announced?! Oh, stress!"
"Yes, but this is planned. It's designed to have everyone focus their attention on us. Err... you."
"It was just so unplanned! All of our efforts are going down the drain..."
"Are we talking about the same thing?"
"Is there an echo in here?"
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November 07, 2005
The Eschatologist: Shooting an Elephant in Your Pajamas
Two geographers walk into a pub. They appear frustrated with one another. The bartender, an astute fellow, notices their quiet, breathless banter.
"Evenin', sirs. If you don't mind me askin', what's got the two of you gentlemen all worked up?"
"We're with the Royal Society," says the older geographer, "and we're caught in a fine pickle."
"Praps I can help you sirs. What's the problem?"
"We simply cannot agree on how to pronounce Daventry," groans the younger geographer.
"Ah! If you think that's difficult, try pronouncing Leeds," says the bartender.
"Frankly," they answer together, "we wouldn't know where to start."
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November 02, 2005
The Eschatologist: Broogle
The headaches are more frequent. I complained about them to Tandy, who wouldn't listen. Often, she was characteristically unsympathetic, bordering on hostile.
I'm not saying I don't deserve it. I do. A peculiar quirk of my personality embraced the martyr complex long ago. I've been beating myself up since I jacked in and started that search biobot. I should have known better.
The doctor laughed when I'd complained. Bastard. Fifty says he doesn't have a clean net, either. Kids, listen up. Load your firewall into your skull before you go surfing. I didn't. And spam just plain hurts these days.
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October 21, 2005
The Eschatologist: After
"Did you fix the charcoal?"
She damn well knew I hadn't. Not yet, anyway. I changed the subject, pretending innocence.
"Saw a rider yesterday. Out on the south ridge."
"Don't play innocent with me, mister. Charcoal. Yes or no?"
"No." I sighed overdramatically.
"Goddammit, Ned. You can't just buy it anymore! Ain't no more stores! Why didn't you?"
I shrugged. "Haven't seen a rider for a while. Looked like he was going into the mountains..."
"Good riddance. Let him go hide. Real folk like us got to rebuild now. And we need charcoal to do it. So get fixing, son."
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October 19, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Fugitive
"Quit following me, Jack. I mean it!"
"The truth can't be hidden anymore, Doctor."
"If you don't stop... Look, I can't be responsible for my own actions."
"And why is that, Doctor?"
"I..."
"Exactly. Your secret's out. You can't avoid the law anymore. I believe you when you say you didn't kill that scientist. Accidents happen. But everything still leads me to you and this alter ego of yours."
"Stop! I can't listen anymore!"
"David, you couldn't save your wife, and you couldn't save your friend..."
"Please. Don't make me angry, Mr. McGee. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
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October 18, 2005
The Eschatologist: Plea
There's a gap in my mental record. I can't account for about fourteen years of my life. Just in case, I'm writing this down should it happen again. You know, so I have a referent.
Every day's the same, I wake to sounds of violence and chaos filtering through the bars. Someone is being beaten again. I've tried to keep my cool and low key. The guards aren't always magnanimous, though.
I know something went wrong. But I didn't do it. I wasn't here. I don't know where I was, or who did it, but it wasn't me, Your Honor.
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October 17, 2005
The Eschatologist: Exchange Rate
It started back in the day with simple prosthetics; a new arm here, a replacement leg there. Then the artificial heart. Lungs, and then brain. Biochems that were certainly human in appearance, but carried a melancholy in their eyes (when they were real) that slapped you across the face. There was something less than a person in there, they'd strayed too far.
Harvesting organs was a thing of the past. Barbaric, even. Never would it be assumed that they could replace the original. The copies were better. Manufactured with rigid quality controls.
We can rebuild them. We have the technology.
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October 03, 2005
The Eschatologist: Sing, O Muse
What a fine "how do you do".
After such a long trip, you'd think I'd be able to come home, kick back, and put up the sandals. But no. I've got this house full of people eating my food, drinking my best wine and generally pissing me off.
Can I trust Penelope? My old nurse, seeing through my disguise, says she's all good.
The archery contest was a joke. None of those assholes could even string the bow, let alone shoot through twelve axes. Go me!
I thanked Telemachus for the help, but I didn't need it. Just ask Scylla.
September 30, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Chandler's Letter
Dear Mum,
I'm sorry it's been so long since my last letter, and I have bad news. I've always been an unusual child, suffering through incessant taunts and barbs. You made the best life for me you could, but after a fashion I knew I would have to strike out on my own.
I've lost my job, mum. I've failed, and I'm going to be coming home. It is apparent that Yankee Candle is now capable of making their own scents, and my spare-time experiments such as 'Sweaty Man Ass' are no longer welcome in the company.
Your loving son.
September 13, 2005
The Eschatologist: Party All The Time
I've been around, and the party just isn't the same.
Back in the day, spring festivals were all the rage. When the Nile flooded, we gave it up to old Osiris. Then came along Dionysus, and well, I tipped more than a few back, but those Romans...oh the Romans! Bacchanalia!
Then the Christians came along. Man, did they kill that buzz. Sure, the Feast of Fools was a blast; who doesn't like mocking the church? But, they stomped out all that fun. Now we've got Shrove Tuesday. Eh. You'd had to have been there, but it just ain't the same.
September 12, 2005
The Eschatologist: Running
I wake up sweating - it's impossible that I'm here again.
There's a rancid smell from the open window. I draw my first breath and it's overwhelming. Too new. A fit of coughing, and I pitch my head over the bed spilling bile, blood and preservative on the patchwork tile, where it ricochets back at me.
It feels good, clears my head of the sirens and the voices, a bitter symphony of hate.
The radio mumbles something in the background, before I can smash it, the door crashes in. Out the window, black feathered wings unfurled and carrying me upward.
August 01, 2005
The Eschatologist: Witness
I can't help coming back to this spot.
There's a boat ramp a quarter mile down - I can see it from here. The water gently laps at the shore, and that old oak with the frayed rope that was so great for swinging still hangs a good thirty feet out over the inlet.
It's quiet here this late into the year, the winter months piling up. No one will come around, not until spring anyway.
That must have been what made it so perfect, I think, as I stare through the icy water down at my tethered lifeless body.
July 29, 2005
The Eschatologist: Survey Says
There is a high positive correlation of the use of common place names amongst species that claim Earth as home. Thanks to the Kurzweil Translator, we've been able to determine that among bear species, for instance, they frequently refer to Earth as "Clod". Further, "Dirt" appears commonly among quadripedal, non-tree climbing species in North America. Not withstanding, outliers do occur among certain species of sloth, calling it "The warm shady place where our foods and beds is". Waterborne species, however, disdain references to "Earth" of any kind, claiming a 70% share of the sphere and are quite arrogant about it.
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July 28, 2005
The Eschatologist: Trinity
Robert squinted through the heavy binoculars one last time before passing them back to the general. Good weather, clear skies, he thought. All should go well.
He could hear money changing hands behind him, the gathered staff and VIPs whispering amongst themselves.
"Trust me. It'll be a dud."
"I'll take that bet, the gadget will work and well. 'Bout 18kt, I say."
"You're on!"
Robert waved them all silent before putting on his sunglasses. He looked at the clock. 5:29am and 42 seconds...43...44...45.
The sun came early that day in New Mexico.
"I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."
July 27, 2005
The Eschatologist: Dreams of a Lost World
The art deco spire of Empire State loomed in the distance, floating closer. The cloud deck was low and frustrating, but halogens on the mooring arm cut through the mist, paving a way to the tower. A quiet night air enhanced the chill.
The zeppelin slowed ponderously, and mooring lines were thrown onto the Number 1 ramp.
A sudden wind, unforeseen, split the fog into shards and caught the lazy zeppelin, slamming it against the building, halogens tearing through the canvas.
There are few sights described as terrifyingly beautiful. Watching helplessly as a flaming airship crashes is one of them.
July 26, 2005
The Eschatologist: Training
I could see my clan cheering me silently, fists pumping, as I made my virginal run.
No one notices children. I danced and crawled around oblivious shoppers and peddlers, in and out of garish multicolored tents hocking metallic trinkets, under and between carts with apples, dates, mangos, sweetmeats, and every other possible delight. My eyes were wide, my pockets wider.
The mark was fourteen cubits away, ten, then two. I hid behind the robes of a fat moneychanger, spit flying from him in fevered negotiation over a goat.
I leaned in, quietly, ready to dart.
She turned and winked, smiling.
July 25, 2005
The Eschatologist: Terms of Financing
The market reverberated with the sounds of fishmongers and peddlers. Smells assaulted their senses. Smoke saturated the air, mixing with frying meats, carp innards and perspiration in the crowded street. Two men shoved their way through.
"Oyabun-san bade us pick the best candidate and that's what we're going to do. Got it?"
A fat, sweaty balding man in sickly yellow robes waved them over and they plunged down a hidden stair behind an apple cart. A girl stood in the basement, smiling stupidly.
"The drugs." The fat man shrugged. "On sale for 300000 Yen."
"By best, Oyabun-san meant cheapest, right?"
July 22, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Last Victim
When doesn't my head hurt?
Every day. Every night. Oh, Lord, the nights.
A dull throbbing as the sun breaks the plane of the earth. Then a pinching feeling in the back of my skull. This is followed by the ice picks. Right into my sinus cavities. I shouldn't scream or cry, but I do, despite knowing it's coming. Then the stars, then black.
I can't remember a goddamned thing. Every night. Nothing.
The sun cracks the other horizon and the pain fades in reverse.
There's just me. Exhausted again. Blood everywhere in some anonymous tramp motel. Mother Fucking MK-ULTRA.
July 20, 2005
The Eschatologist: Shift Work
"I don't wanna drive this time. You drive."
"Fuck that. It's your turn."
"You're off your ass, Pete. Besides, he's a cranky old fuck. Always whinin' about how fast I'm going. Duh, he knows the law, but how are we supposed to get to the crime scene on time if I do the speed limit?"
"He's the boss, asswipe. You're lucky he doesn't find you in contempt every time you drive."
"Blow me. Alright. I'll go, but you owe me for this one."
"Whatever. Just fill out your time card."
"Mobile Magistrate Service. What bullshit. I need a new job."
July 18, 2005
The Eschatologist: Wish Upon A Thousand Stars
Every seven years on the summer solstice legend has it that one lucky kid will have all of his dreams come true. No joke. As the setting sun touches the horizon for the last time that day and the light washes away like water draining from a pool, you must strike a pinata. Then, and neighborhood folklore is very clear about this, it will explode just as your bat makes contact and release a thousand fireflies, which you then wish upon in turn. So they say, anyway. I've waited years for this moment, hoping maybe dad will finally come home.
July 17, 2005
The Eschatologist: A Lonely Road
Fourty-one days and colder nights we all spent on that hiccuping old Trailways, listening to static on the FM with occassional noise patterns. It sure sounded like morse code, but no one on board could tell. Twice a week I sat my shift on her roof, scanning the highway for traffic, pleading for any soul to pop out and yell surprise! Still, I didn't lose hope, not even after the twelfth abandoned mom-n-pop shop, and when I did have free time, eating candy that would never be made again, I just smiled at the world gone bye.
July 13, 2005
The Eschatologist: Mad Scientist For Sale
"Excuse me? It's a what?"
"A Eureka engine."
"Well then. So what the hell is a Eureka engine?"
"It's very simple, actually. You know the concept of the positive feedback loop, right? And mob theory? This works in much the same way. It takes those two ideas and for scientists, alchemists, and thaumaturges like ourselves, will biologically amplify the emotion associated with invention - the epiphany moment - and feed it back into itself to where the output is a higher order multiplier of the original breakthrough. There are, however, certain...side effects."
"Such as?"
"It's an insufferable bastard. All ego."
July 12, 2005
The Eschatologist: Marooned in G Minor
Foam and spray washed playfully around Simon's legs as he dangled his feet in the widening sea. The rock on which he sat wasn't terribly uncomfortable, but it left much to be desired.
"I'll have to speak to the concierge about this!" He laughed wryly at his own joke.
"How droll," said the sea. "So, go on, what were you saying?"
A seagull flew past and waved. Simon stirred the ruined tailpiece of his Stradivarius as it bobbed in the water like a beggar looking for a sonata. He sighed visibly, and the sea rose a bit to comfort him.
July 10, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Exploding Carp of Huang Wei
First encountered over 2200 years ago along a small fishing village on the Yellow River, the Exploding Carp was believed to be a omen of impending doom. If caught properly, much like the blowfish, it can provide a tasty and exciting delicacy. Unfortunately, many Han dynasty chefs learned quickly about this delicious but dangerous fish. Over the years, it had seen use in battle by the forces of the Forbidden City against Mongol incursion, who had no fish defense. The philosopher Qi Yuan cautions against gifting the fish, as a Japanese Emperor discovered sheepishly when his imperial carp gardens were destroyed.
July 08, 2005
The Eschatologist: Department of Biological Security
"What did the report say?"
She handed him a folder, anticipating the question. "Units 12 and 13 slept fitfully and began to show signs that they were rejecting the program. Unit 13 especially - she cried out several times..."
He interrupted, "Doctor Malthus, you know the rules. Please refrain from the use of pronouns until the units have been assigned."
Sheepishly, she continued. "A dopamine-enforced cocktail was administered at 0400 and the frequency of their cortex stimulation decreased by 14 kHz."
"Excellent. Right on schedule for delivery!" He frowned suddenly. "I wish we could eliminate those silly retro headphones, though..."
July 07, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Greatest Show On Earth
The midway was no way to make a living.
With dayglow orange hands, a scarring after-effect of this carnival work, Finn took a long drag from his cigarette, gently put it down on the table next to him, then waited.
Across from him, a gaggle of teenagers nudged their football star, who picked up the ACME ZipPow raygun. Grinning, Jockboy pointed and shot Finn dead.
Within three seconds, Jockboy noticed his bright blue hands and ran off screaming. Ten minutes after, Finn woke up without a scratch, took out a shiny new ZipPow and waited for the next sucker.
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July 06, 2005
The Eschatologist: Debtors Walkabout
"He's gone, mate."
"What do you mean gone? Where the fuck is Quinn, Jimmy? Where's my money?"
"Honest, I swear he's fucking out, mate! No lie! Out in the bush. Muttered something about the goddammed Dreamtime."
Yancy raised his hand and struck the younger boy across the face. Behind him, Yancy's two thugs chuckled under their breath.
"Both of you fuckers shut the fuck up, too, and let me think a minute." Yancy could see his own ass going down 6 feet if he failed to deliver up Quinn to his boss...
"Alright, Jimmy. Let's go. Time for a walkabout."
June 30, 2005
The Eschatologist: On The Efficacy Of Certain Perennials In The Family Lamiaceae
The genus Mentha is typically associated with true mints, especially peppermint, with it's small purple or white flowers and fragrant aromatics. M. piperita is the most commercially viable species, with a wide variety of uses. Specifically, the leaves of the herb are dried for flavoring (for instance in certain teas or confectionaries), but the bitter leaf oil can be used to alleviate certain stomach ailments, act as a stimulant, or as a disguise for the disagreeable tastes of certain poisons. Referencing the latter, Owen wondered quietly what the dead botany professor lying on the floor thought of his D-average now.
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June 08, 2005
The Eschatologist: First, The Lawyers
"What we've got here is a simple case of copyright infringement," a twisted smile betrayed his satisfaction in finally catching the culprit red handed. He could now sense blood in the water, and put his plan into action.
"My clients and I, named as The Blue Falcon, Hawkman, Nite Owl, et cetera, whom I represent in absentia, declare that you must immediately cease and desist all avian imitation activities, and forever affirm you will no longer pursue this line of gross mockery under penalty of law."
He handed the dancer his business card with a sneer. Harvey Birdman, Attorney-at-Law.
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June 07, 2005
The Eschatologist: A Lifetime Of Regret
Solomon's Haberdashery and Imported Finery, read the weather worn, hand stenciled sign above the store. Old Sol was bent over at the tile-lined doorway, swept clean of debris but still showing it's antiquity, trying to get his key into the lock with shaking hands.
Clearing my throat, I patted Sol on the back. He started slightly, but didn't look at me.
"Damned key always sticks, yanno."
"I know, Sol." I tried to be nonchalant. "So this is it? Last day."
"Despite what Rita said, I never spent all my days here." He looked up, tears streaming.
"I know, Sol."
June 06, 2005
The Eschatologist: Halls of His Fathers
The seid broke, thought Old Järnsida. He coughed, spitting blood. The roaring in his head settled down, and awestruck by the lights in the sky. Could no one else see them? Fighting had subsided, and he could feel hands grabbing him. Leaning on his broken sword, he rose to his knees. His sons, Refil and Erik, were looking at him with pained tears on their faces. Laying him gently on his back, the howling of winter wolves filled his ears.
"The Einherjar wait," sang Skuld as she clasped him by the hand. Pointing her spear skyward, they leapt towards home.
June 04, 2005
The Eschatologist: Lunch Hour
"Time," says the poet, "is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."
Pithy, I thought. But in this case, so very true. I loitered on the horn while twisting the wheel in a way that would make my acceptance into the IRL a foregone conclusion. Traffic flailed about me as the engine purred, just getting warmed up. I could practically hear the smile coming from under the hood.
Was that a red light? Nah, must have been yellow.
I did a double take at my watch. Oh shit. I thumped it against the door. Still nothing.
Latelatelatelate.
And now sirens. Just wonderful.
June 03, 2005
The Eschatologist: Initiation Rites
The spindly fingers of Father Quellan touched the top of his head, almost lovingly, but in a perversion of the emotion, twisting it into a selfish, mocking gesture. He flinched inwardly, mottled skin stroking his hair for a little too long.
"You've come a long way, my son."
"Thanks to your teachings, Father. The Order has been good to me."
That drew a smile, one nonetheless filled with hatred and loathing. "We have one more task for you. A trial, if you will." He paused, yellowed eyes flashing in the candlelight.
"You love us, but will you kill for us?"
June 02, 2005
The Eschatologist: Review of the Short Form
With all works of questionable and dubious symbolism, Vanderheuven's inflated ego permeated every creative thought of which his mind could conceive, whether he was caught in a fog of pharmacological hallucinations or through a consequence of what many assumed was a severe form of Asperger's. Further, his patrons, while clearly impressed with his imagination and avant-garde methodology, were equally repulsed by his scattershot approach to works of commission. He often lost interest almost immediately and began dalliances with his own twisted, yet brilliant sculptures. Even still, to find him emulating his own unfinished work was bordering on a disappointing psychopathy.
June 01, 2005
The Eschatologist: Killing Fields
The stock of an arbalester knocked me forward, crashing to the ground in front of the carnifex. By dumb luck, they'd bound my hands in front, so I was able to arrest my fall.
"Captain, this is unwarranted and demeans us. Put him on his knees."
"Yes, Lord."
I could still hear the sounds of the battle over the far hills, surging tides of humanity and machines determined to out do one another for a few square hectares of land.
As I looked up, my eyes teared over the uniformed bones of another poor soul, and awaited the terminal stroke.
May 31, 2005
The Eschatologist: Hunters
They crept quietly into the village; a generous term given there was really only a motley collection of hovels and farmhouses. The wind piled over the hilltops, screaming in their ears defiantly.
"What happened here?"
"I don't know. I imagine plague got 'em."
"Dammit! Let's get the hell out then!"
"No danger now, son. Nobody's lived here in quite a long while."
"Well, I'm not staying any longer than it takes. C'mon."
They moved in between the weather beaten shacks, covering their faces with damp rags in fear, barely noticing the sound of the rifle cocking over the biting wind.
May 27, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Speed of Emotion
He reached across the black seas, past winds that raced to hurl themselves against the shores of Earth, past the shining silver sails glistening in the magnetic breeze. And then further he went, crashing against the heliopause and then, just as quickly beyond old Tycho's remnant.
He felt their pain, whoever they were. Cries of suffering interrupted his sleep and every waking moment; a tragic echo between nebulae and dark matter. I am coming, he called out, just hold on a moment longer. Finally, at the speed of emotion, he broke through, plunging into Andromeda with tears in his eyes.
May 26, 2005
The Eschatologist: Epitaph
I almost died that day, pulled down by tangles of river weed and turbulent currents that twisted and turned me until there was no direction. No up or down, just a sensation of everywhere all around me. I saw Jim then, looking just as we did when mom threw us out of the house in the dawn hours, and we would cause no end of mischief until the fireflies danced among the oaks in twilight. I heard mom's voice going hoarse, calling us indoors for the umpteenth time. A voice that faded with Jim's face into the black of night.
May 25, 2005
The Eschatologist: Someone To Watch Over Me
The summer wind and dust bit at her ragged clothes, but she managed to keep up with the procession.
"S'all right, Annie." She dabbed her sweaty brow with a sleeve, managing a wry smile for the toy.
"Momma went to be with Daddy, but I'm still here. Uncle Abe said he'd take care of us."
Dust flew up and she lost the cart in the swirling winds. The two caskets disappeared into a thick film of remembrance.
Abe stepped out of the maelstrom and laid a hand softly on her cheek.
"Don't worry, darlin. You can call me daddy now."
May 23, 2005
The Eschatologist: Thane of Soup
"Where've you been?"
"What's it to you, dear sister? If you must know, I've been out killing swine."
"That's enough lip from you. Be a dear and keep stirring this cauldron for me. It's a dish we'll be looking forward to. Get it? Say, where's sis?"
"Aren't you a riot. And damned if I know. Did you ever avenge yourself on that sailor's wife? The chestnut incident?"
"I'm here. And company's coming!"
"Shhhh! Do you hear a drum?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell..."
"Hush! Here comes Banquo and the other one. You know. What's his name again?"
"Bloody witches."
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May 22, 2005
The Eschatologist: License to Kill
Often, I forget things. It's not old age or infirmity, but a curse eats at my mind. I can't remember who I am, or where I've been.
My mind is a chalkboard that has been erased, with just a tantalizing shadow of what was written before the cloth swept over it. A never-ending fog in the chill dawn air.
So you might think I was more than a little disturbed to wake this morning in the snaking line at the Department of Public Absolution and Ethical Judgment, covered in blood and waiting (114th in line) to pay a civil fine.
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May 21, 2005
The Eschatologist: Walking the Line
There are seven deadly sins. That's what old Sister Hernandez drilled into me over and again. You know the ones. They get your ass a one way trip to hell.
They've pretty much had their way with me, and I with them. That was years ago. Old news. I've beaten envy and sloth. Gone toe to toe with pride and greed. Gluttony and lust? Been there, done that.
The one I can't get past is wrath, though. It's even eating me up now as I put four rounds in this motherfucker. I wonder if there are twelve steps for me?
May 20, 2005
The Eschatologist: The Stars Are My Destination, Too
Twelve is a magical age.
It's a between time that exists after you're (mostly) through being a kid, but not ready to put your toys away for good. It's before those scary trials to come as a teenager.
You know the ones - they're all over TV and the movies.
Too many choices, cliques, conflicts, resolutions, loves, hates, friendships, promises, betrayals and a range of emotions as wide as the horizon.
Which is why Owen took out his styrofoam glider, the one his dad built with him before he died on his way to the moon, and kept flying forever.
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May 19, 2005
The Eschatologist: A Walk In The Air
I can still see her body tumbling from the tallest gables, pitching slowly to the ground, plummeting at the pace of a romantic park stroll. I watched in wonder and horror.
I don't know what interrupted her rapturous fall. Her posture, with arms extended from her body, gossamer nightgown fluttering in the breeze, she appeared angelic, lighting to the earth through the nightly mists.
At last, passing the dimmed porch, the earth rolled and the tall grasses reached out to her, pulling her down and swallowing her whole, with no trace of her left.
I know, because I saw it.
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May 18, 2005
The Eschatologist: Seasons
"Hedera? Wake up, woman!"
Curled in the fetal position on icy tile, she attempted to creep away from the voice, when a foot struck narcissus petals from her hand, and she flinched, weeping.
"Great Halja, the passage has stunned her." The wizened, owl-like figure smiled plaintively.
"Do you know how I had to move heaven and earth to get her here? Even as we speak, whole crops die and the sun turns her face away from us. Can you not hear her mother stomping above now? A bargain will have to be struck." Halja sighed.
"Gardener, fetch me a pomegranate."
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May 17, 2005
The Eschatologist: Confessions
Old, bearded Bertilak could feel the weight of age bearing down as he stared into the roaring firepit, sparks twinkling in his wild eyes for the last time.
"Damned fool," he muttered, leaning on his Danish axe for support. He stroked his chin with a green-hued hand, running his fingers through whiskers that his wife, many years dead, had chided him as resembling a beaver.
He chuckled quietly as he recalled her quick wit and quicker tongue, knowing he'd be joining her soon. Despite his sins, this was no way, he mused, for a Knight to come to his end.
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May 16, 2005
The Eschatologist: Losing Track
"Christ, man, you can let go now," pleaded Oscar.
"Shut the fuck up. I'm not done yet. If this is going to be done, I'm going to do it, and I'm goddamn well going to do it right, now let me finish." Dizzy heard the cord snap and tendons give way under the garrote as cleanly as anytime he'd performed the final excruciation. One final jerk of the polymer cable, and he let the body slip to the floor, still twitching reflexively.
"You can tell them it's done." Dizzy knelt down and closed his brothers eyes and kissed his forehead.
May 13, 2005
The Eschatologist : A Cheery Bit
Felsic lattices lanced through his igneous creation. As he turns it over in his hands, shaping it, the intruding spars relent to his will. Apropos of panegyrizing his clients, the granite molds slowly into a fitting homage while Hades, not without some irony, gifts it with temporary life. Sighing, he then casts his breath at the stone, burning upon it the name of the newly interred. Silently, he thrusts the headmarker upward through the vents, vessels, and bones of the world, until the hand of Hades wrenches open the wet earth and lovingly rests the marker with the newly called.