The song was wrong,
I was not the one
that could not be beaten.
But, I battled through.
Got a job again,
hope it lasts a while,
let's me get onto ground
that is not quicksand.
One thing I forgot,
is the aches and pains
that will stay with me
from this long drought.
Four years without work,
most of it on streets,
and the body is complaining
each morning I rise.
Not about today's strains,
but the ones long suppressed
and only as I relax
coming to collect due.
Thank Mother Nature's mercy
that coffee is at hand
and works as advertised constantly
to get me going...
or at least into gear.
3April2015 - Dyfedd Rex
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Friday, April 3, 2015
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Paths of Damnation 5 - (Billenius)
There is beauty to a desert sunrise, one that belies the brutal day to come, but still makes it something to enjoy. The clouds, usually high feathery ones, tend to glow orange or gold as the sun begins his daily voyage, after his underworld passing the legends tell of. Then the light blooms across the landscape, turning the nighttime grays to gold or shadowy black. Sandstones blaze their redness like torches as the buttes to our west caught the sun before the ground below them. And the dust raised by the various folks using the coolest part of the day to travel the Sands were like silver bushes on the horizon around me. Shiny silver to the west and south, blue to the north and east.
I took a deep breath, having rode hard for three days across the Riparian Neck, which is a tongue of the desert that extends east between the rivers of the land. It was north we sought, as we left Radixium further behind us with every turning of the horas. This long neck of sands and desert between the rivers was not as deadly as the rest of the desert we would face later, but still worse than the gentle lands near the Amnis Radix along the foot of the Last Mountains. We had rode east, not out of need, the faster path was due north, along the edge of the eastern most of the Grey Mesas. But one had paid a price I had avoided in my fight in the city of the foothills.
Quintas Marinius Varamadis, a distant cousin from these lands, had met my foe before the duel. Despite knowing the fate he would face, he had confronted the assassin. Marinius job with us here was as the local Castrorum Preafectus, the one charged with ensuring the supplies to the outposts and one of only five animas trusted with delivering payrolls to our posts every third hebdoma. So I had one last job as a Custos, one I had been trusted with several times before of late, due to my record of service. One I did more for a lost relative than duty, and to aid out my former colleagues, then from allegiance to the Custos.
So we had ridden the river's valley for two days, before turning north again up the Valles Favillae, the long brush filled series of draws as the land climbed up to the small volcano in the center of the Callix. We were halfway up it, the point where the dense briers gave way to scattered cactus and sage, with some scrub oak and other trees. At least it was not a place loaded with fire grass, which I would have hated. Not to mention having to dig into the supplies I had for the desert crossing to come yet. We had at least six or seven leagues of sand, depending upon the winds and recent eruptions of the volcano, to ride over. And those would be hard milles to make in one day.
But for now the worst of it all was the four extra pack animals. Marinius had no skill at choosing animals, and these four tried my patience at every stop or turn of the draws. Skittish, mean tempered, and if Pater thought Turbator kicked too often, he should try to shoe these beasts. Not that shoes were needed on a vartengi. Their clawed feet had thick pads of tough scaled leather. Claws that Marinius never had covered with blunt sheaths, but at least we had muzzles so they could not bite us.
Yes, us. Didius Lorcius was with me, as he had promised. Thankfully. These beasts were more than I could handle, for my doni was not of calming animals. Barely pack broken and every night they looked over my onagers with hungry eyes, ready to leap into their dinner, or chase it down. While the pack beast was one they scared, Turbator just gave them the look only a stallion of his kind can. The one that says "I can out run you, and come back and kick you into a pulp". When we had mounted up before first light, the Triari kept me from letting Turbator have his go at all four at once, and help me fix my left boot as we rode. One of the vargenti had stepped on it and tore the outer leathers to shreds. As well as the linings, and my socks.
Luckily I had a concoction from a alchemist in Vepresium, who had noted the beasts. It was a reddish liquid he said prevented wounds from becoming gangrenous. It smelled awful and hurt like the fires of hell, so I was fairly sure it was real medicine for a change, not some snake-oil unguent. Then again, some said snakes were put on the world to aid in cures and healing. People that believe that way should be tossed into a pit of snakes, and see how they feel afterwards. I admit to using the oil, venoms and even shed skins in the field to preserve a life, but not to the point of worshiping the legless lizards.
As we rode, I noted that despite my own skills at leather working, developed by trial and error over my decadi here doing my own repairs, Didius was better. The touch of the Lorcius was swift and deft. Fine little stitches of his repair, almost perfect as new, gave the boots a new life beyond the next town. Pulling them on, I barely noted any tightness. It made me wonder where the Triari had learned such a skill, or if my own fumbling would improve with age as his must have.
This left me worried again about why he was with me. He had not again brought up the subject, but I knew he felt that the call of the gods was upon me to return to Jai’ and serve them in the temples. Not just any temple, he had mentioned the imperial ones, up above the desert, further north from my home ranges. Jugosium was a place I had gone to only by need, carrying messages, taking my oath. The city of hills and broken dreams, some called it, others called it the fog bound island town it once had been.
Regardless, it was not my intention. The Desert and the Plains were for me, not an island on an inland sea of fresh water. Folks on islands eat more fish than I care to taste. What can I say, not all folks like all foods. To each is a taste that is unique to them when it comes to foods. I knew my family would have horrors at my love of dwarven pastries. But the Pumillo's made such wonderful ones. That more than anything else I would miss during the journey. The ovens and special cookers for making such could not be transported easily, nor used very much in a desert with little fuel, save that which could rage into a wildfire around one in the space of a sneeze.
Two days of struggling up draw, the ground began to shake from time to time, with sounds accompanying the motions I knew too well from some anni spent upon the patrols of the edge of the Rima Magna, that great cliff that was the boundary between my home plains and this desert far to the north. Cracks and booms of rocks breaking. The beasts were jittery, I was worried. Even Didius seemed to have lines of concern around his eyes, but that could just have been the fumes that were filling the draw.
The winds came from the west most of the time in the desert, but this was a rare calm spell, when the air had only faint and erratic motion in it. That could just be from being below the vast flats of the desert as we climbed into its realm, or something more dangerous. One thing I knew for sure, this draw would fill with the fumes of the volcano, for that smoke did not just rise, but more often sunk into low places around the portals to the Realms of Fire and Lava. Fumes that formed clouds and fogs known to kill entire civilizations in the past. We needed to be up on the hard-pan of the desert, where we could move as needed to avoid the rage of the volcano. If the gods allowed it.
East and West there were draws, Didius was too busy keeping the vargenti under control to speak, so I would have to make the decision. East lay the Head of the Sands, the Callix, a dangerous area of shifting dunes, known to be filled with dangers. To the west was hard-pan of the Shallow Sand Arm, a place where only a few dunes and little sand accumulated, reaching to Amnis Radix to the south in a narrow plain between this valley and the Campi Fornax used by the desperate herders when they dared the fire-grass to feed their beasts. It widened as it met the Neck, but the Arm was my best choice. In this season the winds most commonly blew west to east, so passing west of the Favilus Vulcan was the safest.
Unless I was wrong. Much depended upon my choice, but I made it.
"Sinistra, Triari! We have to get out of here." I shouted, but it was already too late.
A cloud of hot ash rushed around the bend above us, telling me we were statistics, as my cousin and companion of my youth Norbanus would say. That was a tomb maker coming towards us. I had helped dig out hamlets and caravans from a hot ash avalanche before, it was not survivable, nor was it pretty in its aftermath. Such a blast could be confined to the draw we were in, or spread across the whole of the area if the mountain was viscious. I could ask the gods, or my donum of foresight, but these were things I was not eager to try. The gods were fickle, and my doni were untrained.
The vargenti needed no encouragement to leave the draw, just herding to keep them from spreading out into every gulley out of the place. Lorcius raced by me, disappearing into the first stinging wall of the ash-flow. Driving the lizards and back beasts before us, Turbator and I entered it next. Thankfully this was a light one, but a darkness to the north and east boded ill for the next part, as the eruption continued. Inside the ash fog I was reminded of the great wildfire my cousins and I had caused in our younger days. Cinders burned into my flesh, the tang of iron was in the air, which was not a good thing. There were many villages of my folk nearby who could die if exposed, or suffer long illnesses. Turbator hated dust storms, and was trying to race ahead of the others, which I could not do, lest the pack beasts turn back down the washout. As we rose up the gully to its head wall, luckily one all the beasts could leap up. There I yelled into to air, driving the beasts west from the lower ground we had left.
It was a good choice, as the wind rose at last. Or so I thought as we broke out of the cloud. Only to find that Didius was not stopping, but urging the beasts further towards the west, looking back in fear every few beats of a heart. Looking towards Favillus, I knew my own fear. We had been lucky, already the earth shook more, as a pillar of fire, ash, and ruined mountain climbed into the sky. This was not a small blast, and already i could see the outer edges of the column of destruction falling back to the ground around whatever would be left of Favillus.
The distant buttes to our west and north marked the cliff above the Campi Fornax were suddenly very inviting, I just hoped that the devastation did not reach Statiheranae and the rest of the hamlets scattered around the Callix and the few safe havens within it. We would have to detour north and mak a longer crossing than I had hoped. But the Desert never co-operated with the plans of any save the gods, and some say it fought even them.
Turbator bunched under me, then showed his strides
I took a deep breath, having rode hard for three days across the Riparian Neck, which is a tongue of the desert that extends east between the rivers of the land. It was north we sought, as we left Radixium further behind us with every turning of the horas. This long neck of sands and desert between the rivers was not as deadly as the rest of the desert we would face later, but still worse than the gentle lands near the Amnis Radix along the foot of the Last Mountains. We had rode east, not out of need, the faster path was due north, along the edge of the eastern most of the Grey Mesas. But one had paid a price I had avoided in my fight in the city of the foothills.
Quintas Marinius Varamadis, a distant cousin from these lands, had met my foe before the duel. Despite knowing the fate he would face, he had confronted the assassin. Marinius job with us here was as the local Castrorum Preafectus, the one charged with ensuring the supplies to the outposts and one of only five animas trusted with delivering payrolls to our posts every third hebdoma. So I had one last job as a Custos, one I had been trusted with several times before of late, due to my record of service. One I did more for a lost relative than duty, and to aid out my former colleagues, then from allegiance to the Custos.
So we had ridden the river's valley for two days, before turning north again up the Valles Favillae, the long brush filled series of draws as the land climbed up to the small volcano in the center of the Callix. We were halfway up it, the point where the dense briers gave way to scattered cactus and sage, with some scrub oak and other trees. At least it was not a place loaded with fire grass, which I would have hated. Not to mention having to dig into the supplies I had for the desert crossing to come yet. We had at least six or seven leagues of sand, depending upon the winds and recent eruptions of the volcano, to ride over. And those would be hard milles to make in one day.
But for now the worst of it all was the four extra pack animals. Marinius had no skill at choosing animals, and these four tried my patience at every stop or turn of the draws. Skittish, mean tempered, and if Pater thought Turbator kicked too often, he should try to shoe these beasts. Not that shoes were needed on a vartengi. Their clawed feet had thick pads of tough scaled leather. Claws that Marinius never had covered with blunt sheaths, but at least we had muzzles so they could not bite us.
Yes, us. Didius Lorcius was with me, as he had promised. Thankfully. These beasts were more than I could handle, for my doni was not of calming animals. Barely pack broken and every night they looked over my onagers with hungry eyes, ready to leap into their dinner, or chase it down. While the pack beast was one they scared, Turbator just gave them the look only a stallion of his kind can. The one that says "I can out run you, and come back and kick you into a pulp". When we had mounted up before first light, the Triari kept me from letting Turbator have his go at all four at once, and help me fix my left boot as we rode. One of the vargenti had stepped on it and tore the outer leathers to shreds. As well as the linings, and my socks.
Luckily I had a concoction from a alchemist in Vepresium, who had noted the beasts. It was a reddish liquid he said prevented wounds from becoming gangrenous. It smelled awful and hurt like the fires of hell, so I was fairly sure it was real medicine for a change, not some snake-oil unguent. Then again, some said snakes were put on the world to aid in cures and healing. People that believe that way should be tossed into a pit of snakes, and see how they feel afterwards. I admit to using the oil, venoms and even shed skins in the field to preserve a life, but not to the point of worshiping the legless lizards.
As we rode, I noted that despite my own skills at leather working, developed by trial and error over my decadi here doing my own repairs, Didius was better. The touch of the Lorcius was swift and deft. Fine little stitches of his repair, almost perfect as new, gave the boots a new life beyond the next town. Pulling them on, I barely noted any tightness. It made me wonder where the Triari had learned such a skill, or if my own fumbling would improve with age as his must have.
This left me worried again about why he was with me. He had not again brought up the subject, but I knew he felt that the call of the gods was upon me to return to Jai’ and serve them in the temples. Not just any temple, he had mentioned the imperial ones, up above the desert, further north from my home ranges. Jugosium was a place I had gone to only by need, carrying messages, taking my oath. The city of hills and broken dreams, some called it, others called it the fog bound island town it once had been.
Regardless, it was not my intention. The Desert and the Plains were for me, not an island on an inland sea of fresh water. Folks on islands eat more fish than I care to taste. What can I say, not all folks like all foods. To each is a taste that is unique to them when it comes to foods. I knew my family would have horrors at my love of dwarven pastries. But the Pumillo's made such wonderful ones. That more than anything else I would miss during the journey. The ovens and special cookers for making such could not be transported easily, nor used very much in a desert with little fuel, save that which could rage into a wildfire around one in the space of a sneeze.
Two days of struggling up draw, the ground began to shake from time to time, with sounds accompanying the motions I knew too well from some anni spent upon the patrols of the edge of the Rima Magna, that great cliff that was the boundary between my home plains and this desert far to the north. Cracks and booms of rocks breaking. The beasts were jittery, I was worried. Even Didius seemed to have lines of concern around his eyes, but that could just have been the fumes that were filling the draw.
The winds came from the west most of the time in the desert, but this was a rare calm spell, when the air had only faint and erratic motion in it. That could just be from being below the vast flats of the desert as we climbed into its realm, or something more dangerous. One thing I knew for sure, this draw would fill with the fumes of the volcano, for that smoke did not just rise, but more often sunk into low places around the portals to the Realms of Fire and Lava. Fumes that formed clouds and fogs known to kill entire civilizations in the past. We needed to be up on the hard-pan of the desert, where we could move as needed to avoid the rage of the volcano. If the gods allowed it.
East and West there were draws, Didius was too busy keeping the vargenti under control to speak, so I would have to make the decision. East lay the Head of the Sands, the Callix, a dangerous area of shifting dunes, known to be filled with dangers. To the west was hard-pan of the Shallow Sand Arm, a place where only a few dunes and little sand accumulated, reaching to Amnis Radix to the south in a narrow plain between this valley and the Campi Fornax used by the desperate herders when they dared the fire-grass to feed their beasts. It widened as it met the Neck, but the Arm was my best choice. In this season the winds most commonly blew west to east, so passing west of the Favilus Vulcan was the safest.
Unless I was wrong. Much depended upon my choice, but I made it.
"Sinistra, Triari! We have to get out of here." I shouted, but it was already too late.
A cloud of hot ash rushed around the bend above us, telling me we were statistics, as my cousin and companion of my youth Norbanus would say. That was a tomb maker coming towards us. I had helped dig out hamlets and caravans from a hot ash avalanche before, it was not survivable, nor was it pretty in its aftermath. Such a blast could be confined to the draw we were in, or spread across the whole of the area if the mountain was viscious. I could ask the gods, or my donum of foresight, but these were things I was not eager to try. The gods were fickle, and my doni were untrained.
The vargenti needed no encouragement to leave the draw, just herding to keep them from spreading out into every gulley out of the place. Lorcius raced by me, disappearing into the first stinging wall of the ash-flow. Driving the lizards and back beasts before us, Turbator and I entered it next. Thankfully this was a light one, but a darkness to the north and east boded ill for the next part, as the eruption continued. Inside the ash fog I was reminded of the great wildfire my cousins and I had caused in our younger days. Cinders burned into my flesh, the tang of iron was in the air, which was not a good thing. There were many villages of my folk nearby who could die if exposed, or suffer long illnesses. Turbator hated dust storms, and was trying to race ahead of the others, which I could not do, lest the pack beasts turn back down the washout. As we rose up the gully to its head wall, luckily one all the beasts could leap up. There I yelled into to air, driving the beasts west from the lower ground we had left.
It was a good choice, as the wind rose at last. Or so I thought as we broke out of the cloud. Only to find that Didius was not stopping, but urging the beasts further towards the west, looking back in fear every few beats of a heart. Looking towards Favillus, I knew my own fear. We had been lucky, already the earth shook more, as a pillar of fire, ash, and ruined mountain climbed into the sky. This was not a small blast, and already i could see the outer edges of the column of destruction falling back to the ground around whatever would be left of Favillus.
The distant buttes to our west and north marked the cliff above the Campi Fornax were suddenly very inviting, I just hoped that the devastation did not reach Statiheranae and the rest of the hamlets scattered around the Callix and the few safe havens within it. We would have to detour north and mak a longer crossing than I had hoped. But the Desert never co-operated with the plans of any save the gods, and some say it fought even them.
Turbator bunched under me, then showed his strides
Friday, December 5, 2014
Crossing of the Shadow - A Billenius tale - chapter 5, as far as I got.
Settling back, holding that cup of kaf tight, Specula on my lap, I pondered where to start.
The Triari must have sensed that, and chuckled. "The Augurii I have dealt with tell me to just take things in the order they are seen, boy. The gods and gifts use that order for reasons, even when it leaves us confused and clueless."
I let a puff of breath out, inhaling slowly afterwards to find that point where normal dreams turned prophetic last night. They let me do this in peace, uncle from lack of knowledge, and Bentarius's experience with priests and seers obviously guiding him in waiting. Eyes closed, my ragged shields held tight against the intrudiong auras of my companions and those nearby, I at last spoke.
"These night-visions center of late around brooms, scaly beings, flames, darkness, and pain." I admitted. "Each starts differently, but at some point the theme of the last few years worth..."
That got me cut off fast. "Years. Gods, Billenius." Uncle gasped. "You said only the last few hebdomae."
"Pacio! Let the boy speak." That command voice, something the Praetor apparently never lost, rumbled softly, but with authority. "Continue, Varus."
I swallowed a bit, knowing matertera's next missive to me after hearing this from uncle would be one of advice, chiding, and sharp words. "The juncture of roads centers around hooded figures, some scaled, some not, but all with a taint of darkness around them. Seven figures move about, amid a throng of folks, doing actions that border on... evil." I used that word lightly, and kept the actions I knew to myself. No sense leaving uncle spun up about the town being host to such soon.
Two long sips of the kaf gave me the calm to move on, despite the jitters that brew gives me. "These robed ones, they move towards a place. Given the hints I see of mountians and walls, I believe it is here. Each walks along different roads, but all those roads come to one town, on the edge of the Shifting Grey Sands. No hint lies in when, but I see the blades of the butchers, as the walkers in darkness enter the town, so it must be a Carnifex, the slaughter day.." That got a reaction from Bentarius.
"Perfidio." His soft whisper interrupted my relating of the dream. "Too close to what I've already heard, son."
Letting my lids open a bit, I handed over Specula. "This is about the point she struggles to hold control for me, when walking this dream." Clearing my throat to get his attention, once noting his hand pressed to his own eyes. "she fears these walkers, for some reason."
Accepting my acinicas after a moment of confusion, the Triari nodded. "Go on."
Another long swig, draining the cup, which I set upon the desk. "Once in that place, they meet, not to unite, it seems, as there are conflicts within this group, but in the end, they all depart together. Under a set of claws grasping in the skies above them, casting a long shadow over the world. Scaled claws, red, blue, grey and green scales, some mingled with other colors. Two loom larger than the others at this point, one of sapphire and onyx, the other flames, gold and smoke." That evoked a his. All knew only one of the draconis scales held those three hues. She already held enmity towards me for foiling several of her plans.
"Anathi-Faruth-Glathin, Blaze-upon-Angered-Mountains." Uncle's words barely stireed the air after a moment. "Billenius, given your history with the Queen of Flame..."
"Let it rest for now, Mattio." Bentarius injected. "We'll parse it out after we have it all."
Yet, I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, unable to preven the roils in his aura driving upon my perception. I dared not stop, after this bit. "I see myself then. I know, you cannot trust visions of your own future, but I see me, out on the desert, seeking a trail of one walker in particular. Yet, other hunters seek this one as well." I shook my head. "Then it really turns on me, beyond my control. I see the Dunes, footsteps leading into them, under the long shadow, with me following that trail. Through it all, onagers dance along beside me, wild beasts of the desert, not the tamer ones from home."
I tapped the cup. "Mind if I refill this?"
Uncle grasped it before I could. "Dammit. Sorry Billenius."
"I'm the junior here, sir." The laugh at uncle being the servant in his own office lightened the darkness I was about to deal with. "Besides, this is the only part that I feel to be imminent."
"As a soldier, I'd tell you to trust that gut feeling, boy." Bentarius spoke softly, words nearly drowned by the rush of kaf back into that mug."The last few years leading the Triatium tend to speak differently, though. Too often, seers over-estimate their ability to understand what the goddesses show them."
I let the nod of ascension be my only answer, accepting that cup carefully. The next part would be something more disturbing to them, I was sure.
Three long, slow sips later, I took up the dream again, fortified against what I'd seen. "There comes a period of long blackness, then faint light, under which I see a time when Pelori lies in the hands of Athalanic demons, allied with the Flame Queen, and Radixium falls to raiders from the Sands. Over it all hovers a number of spathas, repeled only by a constantly fading number of spears. In the end, the spears fail, the swords descend upon the lands of the Empire, destroying the peace, upending the world as we know it. Then, once more, hunters come into view, fighting the blue and black scaled claw seeking dominion over the central lands, two daggers rise against the sunrise slicing darkness with their shadows. When it all settles down again, there lies before me a choice of paths. My decision leads to a place of flame, smoke, and pain, then utter darkness. There was no more." That last a lie I intended to stick to.
A lie, I knew, the Triari was aware of. His solid stare tried to pry more from me without asking directly. I met his eyes, daring him to ask.
Remarkably, he looked away first. "Not good omens. Nor all of the dream, I dare say. Keep the part you refuse to speak of, boy. I have hints from the temple augurs enough to sense that the Ordo Triarium will suffer in times to come."
Finding one held holds their own breath often is surprising as the reasons to discover it. Given his history with the Centuria Sinistra, I expected him to press for more details, not to mention the omitted portions of the dream.
"This is why you call your doni curses, rather than gifts?" Uncle whispered.
I held my peace. The time to deal with my reluctance over training was not after dealing with those powers lain upon my shoulders. Or so I hoped.
"Given this vision, and the echoes of fear I sense this blade still resonates, boy, I'd say you saw much more after that." The Triari grumbled. "Things my sources hint at. Like a scepter lost amid grass and rocks, the claws of other draconis you dare not speak of here, and a darkness that never lifts."
Too close, I thought. I opened my mouth to discourage the line I sensed he would walk, only to be silenced by a gesture. "Your face says it all, Varus. Perfidio." He whispered.
Uncle sat back, confused by his face. "Bento?"
"Later, Mattio. After the boy decides if he dare trust us." His gaze came back to me. "One thing he does not mention is which spears hold off the spears. That speaks volumes by itself."
I sighed. He knew already. "The greatest spear falls from hands here. Soon, sir. Sorry."
That snort made me smile despite the bad news. "Knew that before coming here. But, the hand to lift it up again may be here. Or so Doma Velina warned me when I left her."
That small reminder, that his own lover suffered the same curse as me, to know the futures, possible and probable, chilled me. His refusal to marry her, or her to marry him, often figured in court gossip that managed to travel to this distant borderland.
When he spoke next, I almost missed the warning tone. "Caution I admire, but you tread on the edge of rebellion against the godesses, boy."
I let it sit a few fingers of sand before answering. "Somethings, I am not sure I should speak of yet."
His nod let the matter drop. Though I was sure he would bring it up later. "I will only ask one more thing, then." His eyes locked to mine as he spoke. "Do the spears break, or go into hiding?"
My brow crunched up. That question I failed to anticipate. "I will say that I see a time they arise again, when light perhaps returns. But that part felt uncertain, Triari."
His face held worry. But no further did we speak of the dream. I wished later he'd pushed more.
The Triari must have sensed that, and chuckled. "The Augurii I have dealt with tell me to just take things in the order they are seen, boy. The gods and gifts use that order for reasons, even when it leaves us confused and clueless."
I let a puff of breath out, inhaling slowly afterwards to find that point where normal dreams turned prophetic last night. They let me do this in peace, uncle from lack of knowledge, and Bentarius's experience with priests and seers obviously guiding him in waiting. Eyes closed, my ragged shields held tight against the intrudiong auras of my companions and those nearby, I at last spoke.
"These night-visions center of late around brooms, scaly beings, flames, darkness, and pain." I admitted. "Each starts differently, but at some point the theme of the last few years worth..."
That got me cut off fast. "Years. Gods, Billenius." Uncle gasped. "You said only the last few hebdomae."
"Pacio! Let the boy speak." That command voice, something the Praetor apparently never lost, rumbled softly, but with authority. "Continue, Varus."
I swallowed a bit, knowing matertera's next missive to me after hearing this from uncle would be one of advice, chiding, and sharp words. "The juncture of roads centers around hooded figures, some scaled, some not, but all with a taint of darkness around them. Seven figures move about, amid a throng of folks, doing actions that border on... evil." I used that word lightly, and kept the actions I knew to myself. No sense leaving uncle spun up about the town being host to such soon.
Two long sips of the kaf gave me the calm to move on, despite the jitters that brew gives me. "These robed ones, they move towards a place. Given the hints I see of mountians and walls, I believe it is here. Each walks along different roads, but all those roads come to one town, on the edge of the Shifting Grey Sands. No hint lies in when, but I see the blades of the butchers, as the walkers in darkness enter the town, so it must be a Carnifex, the slaughter day.." That got a reaction from Bentarius.
"Perfidio." His soft whisper interrupted my relating of the dream. "Too close to what I've already heard, son."
Letting my lids open a bit, I handed over Specula. "This is about the point she struggles to hold control for me, when walking this dream." Clearing my throat to get his attention, once noting his hand pressed to his own eyes. "she fears these walkers, for some reason."
Accepting my acinicas after a moment of confusion, the Triari nodded. "Go on."
Another long swig, draining the cup, which I set upon the desk. "Once in that place, they meet, not to unite, it seems, as there are conflicts within this group, but in the end, they all depart together. Under a set of claws grasping in the skies above them, casting a long shadow over the world. Scaled claws, red, blue, grey and green scales, some mingled with other colors. Two loom larger than the others at this point, one of sapphire and onyx, the other flames, gold and smoke." That evoked a his. All knew only one of the draconis scales held those three hues. She already held enmity towards me for foiling several of her plans.
"Anathi-Faruth-Glathin, Blaze-upon-Angered-Mountains." Uncle's words barely stireed the air after a moment. "Billenius, given your history with the Queen of Flame..."
"Let it rest for now, Mattio." Bentarius injected. "We'll parse it out after we have it all."
Yet, I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, unable to preven the roils in his aura driving upon my perception. I dared not stop, after this bit. "I see myself then. I know, you cannot trust visions of your own future, but I see me, out on the desert, seeking a trail of one walker in particular. Yet, other hunters seek this one as well." I shook my head. "Then it really turns on me, beyond my control. I see the Dunes, footsteps leading into them, under the long shadow, with me following that trail. Through it all, onagers dance along beside me, wild beasts of the desert, not the tamer ones from home."
I tapped the cup. "Mind if I refill this?"
Uncle grasped it before I could. "Dammit. Sorry Billenius."
"I'm the junior here, sir." The laugh at uncle being the servant in his own office lightened the darkness I was about to deal with. "Besides, this is the only part that I feel to be imminent."
"As a soldier, I'd tell you to trust that gut feeling, boy." Bentarius spoke softly, words nearly drowned by the rush of kaf back into that mug."The last few years leading the Triatium tend to speak differently, though. Too often, seers over-estimate their ability to understand what the goddesses show them."
I let the nod of ascension be my only answer, accepting that cup carefully. The next part would be something more disturbing to them, I was sure.
Three long, slow sips later, I took up the dream again, fortified against what I'd seen. "There comes a period of long blackness, then faint light, under which I see a time when Pelori lies in the hands of Athalanic demons, allied with the Flame Queen, and Radixium falls to raiders from the Sands. Over it all hovers a number of spathas, repeled only by a constantly fading number of spears. In the end, the spears fail, the swords descend upon the lands of the Empire, destroying the peace, upending the world as we know it. Then, once more, hunters come into view, fighting the blue and black scaled claw seeking dominion over the central lands, two daggers rise against the sunrise slicing darkness with their shadows. When it all settles down again, there lies before me a choice of paths. My decision leads to a place of flame, smoke, and pain, then utter darkness. There was no more." That last a lie I intended to stick to.
A lie, I knew, the Triari was aware of. His solid stare tried to pry more from me without asking directly. I met his eyes, daring him to ask.
Remarkably, he looked away first. "Not good omens. Nor all of the dream, I dare say. Keep the part you refuse to speak of, boy. I have hints from the temple augurs enough to sense that the Ordo Triarium will suffer in times to come."
Finding one held holds their own breath often is surprising as the reasons to discover it. Given his history with the Centuria Sinistra, I expected him to press for more details, not to mention the omitted portions of the dream.
"This is why you call your doni curses, rather than gifts?" Uncle whispered.
I held my peace. The time to deal with my reluctance over training was not after dealing with those powers lain upon my shoulders. Or so I hoped.
"Given this vision, and the echoes of fear I sense this blade still resonates, boy, I'd say you saw much more after that." The Triari grumbled. "Things my sources hint at. Like a scepter lost amid grass and rocks, the claws of other draconis you dare not speak of here, and a darkness that never lifts."
Too close, I thought. I opened my mouth to discourage the line I sensed he would walk, only to be silenced by a gesture. "Your face says it all, Varus. Perfidio." He whispered.
Uncle sat back, confused by his face. "Bento?"
"Later, Mattio. After the boy decides if he dare trust us." His gaze came back to me. "One thing he does not mention is which spears hold off the spears. That speaks volumes by itself."
I sighed. He knew already. "The greatest spear falls from hands here. Soon, sir. Sorry."
That snort made me smile despite the bad news. "Knew that before coming here. But, the hand to lift it up again may be here. Or so Doma Velina warned me when I left her."
That small reminder, that his own lover suffered the same curse as me, to know the futures, possible and probable, chilled me. His refusal to marry her, or her to marry him, often figured in court gossip that managed to travel to this distant borderland.
When he spoke next, I almost missed the warning tone. "Caution I admire, but you tread on the edge of rebellion against the godesses, boy."
I let it sit a few fingers of sand before answering. "Somethings, I am not sure I should speak of yet."
His nod let the matter drop. Though I was sure he would bring it up later. "I will only ask one more thing, then." His eyes locked to mine as he spoke. "Do the spears break, or go into hiding?"
My brow crunched up. That question I failed to anticipate. "I will say that I see a time they arise again, when light perhaps returns. But that part felt uncertain, Triari."
His face held worry. But no further did we speak of the dream. I wished later he'd pushed more.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Answering the Question of Who Am I? - A poem of self reflection and friends
Who are U? She asked.
Which stirred my murky soul
into a roiling mess of questions
about what I really am,
to her, myself, and others.
So, I had to answer the call
and define myself outside
the boundaries of social media
into that realm more spiritual.
I am but a figment
of my own wandering imagination.
Stirred out into the world
beyond that strange, solitary realm,
by the dipping of friends' fingers
into muddy waters of that unreality,
calling me up to support those
needing words to soothe their souls
or enrage them to action.
I am the smoke
that sails from my pipe,
irritating the hypochondriacs noses,
yet stirs Memories in those
who had beloved relatives and friends
that odor calls back to them
from the place beyond this life,
to lay ghostly hands upon shoulders
in gentle support against Life's pressures.
I am but a dream
shared with some in brief moments
of vivid colors or monochrome starkness,
across the new aethers dreams rule,
called an internet and social media.
Evoked by prompts, teased back by images,
to weave the smoke and words together
amid the grids of Reality's structures,
and show you worlds beyond it.
I am the wanderer,
walking the streets and trails,
seeking a place called home
that never materializes in quite the way
others think should be there for me.
But, accepts what he has gained,
until the next time feet itch
and the roads and paths summon me
to wander their wonder lined ways.
A silent lurker around the word ponds,
I hunt the prompts and images
that stir my inner bard to compose
words or tales quite strange.
Then toss them into rivers of electrons
for others to enjoy and be inspired
towards raising their own voices
into song, prose, or verse
to lift even more souls up.
I am just imaginary,
conjured up by you,
in those moments when
you need a friend.
Built from the streaming bytes
that dance along cables
into something not quite me...
and yet totally is me,
at least, as you see me.
3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, with HUGE tip of the hat to my internet friend Nunya for prompting this out of me, not the first poem she's tickled out with some bit she shares and pushes out there. Thanks, Ms. Bidness. Or is that Muse Bidness?
Which stirred my murky soul
into a roiling mess of questions
about what I really am,
to her, myself, and others.
So, I had to answer the call
and define myself outside
the boundaries of social media
into that realm more spiritual.
I am but a figment
of my own wandering imagination.
Stirred out into the world
beyond that strange, solitary realm,
by the dipping of friends' fingers
into muddy waters of that unreality,
calling me up to support those
needing words to soothe their souls
or enrage them to action.
I am the smoke
that sails from my pipe,
irritating the hypochondriacs noses,
yet stirs Memories in those
who had beloved relatives and friends
that odor calls back to them
from the place beyond this life,
to lay ghostly hands upon shoulders
in gentle support against Life's pressures.
I am but a dream
shared with some in brief moments
of vivid colors or monochrome starkness,
across the new aethers dreams rule,
called an internet and social media.
Evoked by prompts, teased back by images,
to weave the smoke and words together
amid the grids of Reality's structures,
and show you worlds beyond it.
I am the wanderer,
walking the streets and trails,
seeking a place called home
that never materializes in quite the way
others think should be there for me.
But, accepts what he has gained,
until the next time feet itch
and the roads and paths summon me
to wander their wonder lined ways.
A silent lurker around the word ponds,
I hunt the prompts and images
that stir my inner bard to compose
words or tales quite strange.
Then toss them into rivers of electrons
for others to enjoy and be inspired
towards raising their own voices
into song, prose, or verse
to lift even more souls up.
I am just imaginary,
conjured up by you,
in those moments when
you need a friend.
Built from the streaming bytes
that dance along cables
into something not quite me...
and yet totally is me,
at least, as you see me.
3September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, with HUGE tip of the hat to my internet friend Nunya for prompting this out of me, not the first poem she's tickled out with some bit she shares and pushes out there. Thanks, Ms. Bidness. Or is that Muse Bidness?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
The Rain Eater - A poem of the desert and wildfire season
Dreaming of rain,
I lean back against
this warm brick wall, lazily.
Praying those thunderheads deliver
some precipitation today.
Like so many,
amid this hot drought,
I fear the fire dangers
those "Red Flags" flying
portend so direly.
'Southwest Monsoon Season',
too many virga storms,
where desert airs gobble up
the falling rains before
they reach ground.
I smoke carefully.
One here, inside town,
where sprinkler systems tap reservoirs
already so drawn down
there's rationing rumors.
The heat builds,
as the clouds billow.
Over the century mark already
inside the garage behind
where I sit.
Winds stir dust,
and those marshmallows swell
out over the Salt Lake
and along mountain ridges,
teasing the valleys.
Tempted to nap,
but today I'm watchman.
Asked to look for workers
to actually show here
and finish up.
But like storms,
they fail to appear.
Leaving me to wilt away
like weeds I pulled
waiting for them.
When the breezes
fail to find me,
I get a good whiff
of that work's results.
Strong body odor.
Weeding's mostly done.
Front lawn's rocks removed,
to the extent that's possible,
so pray for rain,
until next load.
Still, sitting here,
scribbling out some poems,
while fools set off fireworks,
despite the fire danger
celebrating Pioneer Day.
My mind wanders
amid shimmering heat waves
about strange things this day.
Pondering those round rocks
God shot-putted here.
Was He bored?
A bet with Satan?
Or some plan to stir
His angels to exercise
lest waists expand?
Ten pins, perhaps?
A really strange version,
using gravity and the canyon
to knock down distant,
blameless sage brush?
Stretching a bit,
I gaze over west
where the clouds lift out
unable to find moisture
to fuel rains.
Hints of haze
from fires burning around
weave and chase those towers
warning me tonight's news
probably ain't good.
I see only
dust and salt crusts
from sweat worked up earlier
on arms turning red
under this sun.
Thinking about dancing
to call down rain
but know lightning will answer
sparking even more fires
than those kids.
Sitting back down,
just waiting it out,
until sundown comes at last
and the meteors run,
and I relax.
And, sure enough
the Rain Eater Struck,
the desert's hot, arid breath
devouring some rain veils
just below bases.
It figures.
Drought.
Tough times.
For man, and beasts.
23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex
I lean back against
this warm brick wall, lazily.
Praying those thunderheads deliver
some precipitation today.
Like so many,
amid this hot drought,
I fear the fire dangers
those "Red Flags" flying
portend so direly.
'Southwest Monsoon Season',
too many virga storms,
where desert airs gobble up
the falling rains before
they reach ground.
I smoke carefully.
One here, inside town,
where sprinkler systems tap reservoirs
already so drawn down
there's rationing rumors.
The heat builds,
as the clouds billow.
Over the century mark already
inside the garage behind
where I sit.
Winds stir dust,
and those marshmallows swell
out over the Salt Lake
and along mountain ridges,
teasing the valleys.
Tempted to nap,
but today I'm watchman.
Asked to look for workers
to actually show here
and finish up.
But like storms,
they fail to appear.
Leaving me to wilt away
like weeds I pulled
waiting for them.
When the breezes
fail to find me,
I get a good whiff
of that work's results.
Strong body odor.
Weeding's mostly done.
Front lawn's rocks removed,
to the extent that's possible,
so pray for rain,
until next load.
Still, sitting here,
scribbling out some poems,
while fools set off fireworks,
despite the fire danger
celebrating Pioneer Day.
My mind wanders
amid shimmering heat waves
about strange things this day.
Pondering those round rocks
God shot-putted here.
Was He bored?
A bet with Satan?
Or some plan to stir
His angels to exercise
lest waists expand?
Ten pins, perhaps?
A really strange version,
using gravity and the canyon
to knock down distant,
blameless sage brush?
Stretching a bit,
I gaze over west
where the clouds lift out
unable to find moisture
to fuel rains.
Hints of haze
from fires burning around
weave and chase those towers
warning me tonight's news
probably ain't good.
I see only
dust and salt crusts
from sweat worked up earlier
on arms turning red
under this sun.
Thinking about dancing
to call down rain
but know lightning will answer
sparking even more fires
than those kids.
Sitting back down,
just waiting it out,
until sundown comes at last
and the meteors run,
and I relax.
And, sure enough
the Rain Eater Struck,
the desert's hot, arid breath
devouring some rain veils
just below bases.
It figures.
Drought.
Tough times.
For man, and beasts.
23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex
The Shiny Distractions
Amid bowling ball rocks,
scattered through the gravel,
tiny sparkles distract me
as I load trailers
from the old stream-bed
to haul off later.
Gleams lying of wealth,
mostly flakes of mica
from shattered quartz chunks
to the rotten stuff
the locals call granite,
but fails hardness tests.
'Cause of my appearance,
the heavy packs carried,
some called me "Prospector"
and this ol' bar
tempts me to try
runnin' a few pans.
But I know well
That's futility talkin' there,
as at the best
a few small flakes
is all that won't
float away on trying.
Sadly, despite hopes raised,
I'll get more cash
from the old cans
left from kids' parties
when this lot lay
empty, awaiting a building.
Not to mention pennies
from some subcontractor's ashtray
tossed out one day
by the front entry.
Then again, who knows?
Without pan, not I.
My thoughts turn again
to the distant headwaters
of that shifting stream,
The Little Cottonwood Canyon,
where old mines lay...
so there's a chance.
Some of those holes
held precious metals inside,
just as many failed
according to books read
the last few years
while at the Library.
So waiting for awhile,
I wander around slowly,
glancing down at soil
that beckons me constantly
to use things around
to take a stab.
Got a hose handy,
but ain't a clue
as to how one
should use it here
as a poor-man's sluice.
Probably better that way.
Better I just sit,
smoking my pipe quietly.
For knowing my luck
the neighbors would complain
about me placer mining
inside the city limits.
The bar's likely claimed,
or already played out,
save those few reflections
begging me to try
like foolish folk before,
only to be disappointed.
Back to work, boy.
Nothing here for you
save those aluminum cans,
the abandoned pennies, and
weeds amid the rock,
that also need pulling.
Then again, maybe... tossing a handful onto the pavement?
23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex
scattered through the gravel,
tiny sparkles distract me
as I load trailers
from the old stream-bed
to haul off later.
Gleams lying of wealth,
mostly flakes of mica
from shattered quartz chunks
to the rotten stuff
the locals call granite,
but fails hardness tests.
'Cause of my appearance,
the heavy packs carried,
some called me "Prospector"
and this ol' bar
tempts me to try
runnin' a few pans.
But I know well
That's futility talkin' there,
as at the best
a few small flakes
is all that won't
float away on trying.
Sadly, despite hopes raised,
I'll get more cash
from the old cans
left from kids' parties
when this lot lay
empty, awaiting a building.
Not to mention pennies
from some subcontractor's ashtray
tossed out one day
by the front entry.
Then again, who knows?
Without pan, not I.
My thoughts turn again
to the distant headwaters
of that shifting stream,
The Little Cottonwood Canyon,
where old mines lay...
so there's a chance.
Some of those holes
held precious metals inside,
just as many failed
according to books read
the last few years
while at the Library.
So waiting for awhile,
I wander around slowly,
glancing down at soil
that beckons me constantly
to use things around
to take a stab.
Got a hose handy,
but ain't a clue
as to how one
should use it here
as a poor-man's sluice.
Probably better that way.
Better I just sit,
smoking my pipe quietly.
For knowing my luck
the neighbors would complain
about me placer mining
inside the city limits.
The bar's likely claimed,
or already played out,
save those few reflections
begging me to try
like foolish folk before,
only to be disappointed.
Back to work, boy.
Nothing here for you
save those aluminum cans,
the abandoned pennies, and
weeds amid the rock,
that also need pulling.
Then again, maybe... tossing a handful onto the pavement?
23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Long after that Giant Leap, we still are "Groundhogs". - A poem of Sci-Fi and Space
Being a science fiction fan,
back in my formative days,
I have some pressing questions
to ask of all around.
And top of that list,
the one showing my gender.
Where the hell are the skin-tight space-suits?
Now, stop shaking your heads,
all you ladies out there,
as I know you wonder too,
where the heroic guys are,
having seen romance novel covers.
And that don't end it.
Where the hell is my flying car now?
As we celebrate this day
something I actually remember, vaguely,
that man walked off Earth,
our first pioneers leaving footprints boldly
in the grey lunar dust,
I just have to ask things,
Like when do we get space vacations?
Look, I'm just pointing out
that we have some things
so many laughed at then,
when in books or comics.
Dick Tracy's TV watch thing,
and flip-phones from Star Trek,
So, when will we colonize other star-systems?
Wait, they did that already,
over in Japan just recently,
though it still costs tons.
But still, of the dreams
Science Fiction offered us all,
What others still languish sadly,
Like when can we travel the stars?
Still no moon-bases to visit,
no zero-G sports channels,
we lack the vision now
to press on beyond low-orbit,
but I hope someday soon,
we each live those tales,
but I still want my own planet.
Buzz, You asked a question
Where was I at when
you walked on the moon?
Mister Aldrin, glued to TV,
Dreaming of being an astronaut
when the four-year-old body dozed.
Now, Can you get NASCAR to hold....
Lunar Buggy races on Fiftieth Anniversary?
Just joking (okay, I'd go),
But, folks, these are only
the first steps to take,
on our long journey ahead,
to spread out across space,
realizing that writers went first,
If only in tales mom's screamed over,
when they saw the racy covers bearing
gals in skin tight suits moon walking.
So, press on, you dreamers,
aim high, comic book readers,
we might not get super-heroes,
but we hold the potential
for most science fiction stories
to appear at last factual,
save that one bit about us nerds
always getting the girl in the end.
She'll always follow the money, fellas.
Unless we show them our brains.
20July2014- Dyfedd Rex, still wanting to have a batting cage on the Dark Side of the Moon, where can I buy that franchise at?
Okay, seriously, yes, a lot of the sci-fi tales are proving out slowly, and I know, the fiction was getting budgets to balance and pass quickly and consistently, that would let us live on the moon someday, sooner in tales than reality. But still, we got the guts, the tech, the brains, the desires, and most of all, the dreams.
And, thanks to the last few decades, we have the sparks lit in our youth, even if dimmed a few times by the reality that space is a dangerous place, and getting up there, and back down more so. But we should press on, and soon. I'd like to try space travel myself, before the ol' body gives up the ghost.
So, Besides the batting cage, where can I get the moon's first liquor license at, so I can open the first, true bar in space?
And, Buzz, if you see this, I tip the battered brown hat to you and the others who have been in the Black (in terms of my favorite sci-fi show. One of my first memories is of the landing at Tranquility. I wish things had gone different enough that I'd be on the moon right now, serving you a beer for the celebration, but I'd take the keys from your Lunar Rover, if I did, leaving them in that jar on the back-bar. Gotta have some responsibility. I can see you sitting down with Han Solo, James T. Kirk, Jean-Luc Picard, Malcolm Reynolds, Mister Garibaldi, and some others, tossing one back, as we celebrate making the first steps to their worlds, or our versions of the dreams those characters inspired in us, as did you, Neal, and the rest of the NASA astronaut corps and those other space pioneers out there. And I promise to make Han and Mal check their blasters/guns at the door.
And, thank god we have yet to see....
Asimov's robotic detective (other than on the silver screen)
Heinlein's practical joker computer (then again, seen a lot of checks with extra zero's issued by number crunching boxes).
Clarke's big monolith (but I really hope I live long enough to see a Beanstalk that works!).
Herbert's Butlerian Jihad and the mess it would create.
Whedon's Alliance and the Reaves they made.
and all the other bad things that we'll probably screw up and do anyway.
Oh, and everyone else. Keep the dream alive. Show your kids those stars, and dare them to get there.
And maybe, just maybe, we will come again in peace, to the moon, and many, many other places.
Except the bars. We know we'll have fights between the Trekkies, Browncoats, and Lucasites over which ships are faster. Guess I'll need Doc Savage as a bouncer.
-D.R.
back in my formative days,
I have some pressing questions
to ask of all around.
And top of that list,
the one showing my gender.
Where the hell are the skin-tight space-suits?
Now, stop shaking your heads,
all you ladies out there,
as I know you wonder too,
where the heroic guys are,
having seen romance novel covers.
And that don't end it.
Where the hell is my flying car now?
As we celebrate this day
something I actually remember, vaguely,
that man walked off Earth,
our first pioneers leaving footprints boldly
in the grey lunar dust,
I just have to ask things,
Like when do we get space vacations?
Look, I'm just pointing out
that we have some things
so many laughed at then,
when in books or comics.
Dick Tracy's TV watch thing,
and flip-phones from Star Trek,
So, when will we colonize other star-systems?
Wait, they did that already,
over in Japan just recently,
though it still costs tons.
But still, of the dreams
Science Fiction offered us all,
What others still languish sadly,
Like when can we travel the stars?
Still no moon-bases to visit,
no zero-G sports channels,
we lack the vision now
to press on beyond low-orbit,
but I hope someday soon,
we each live those tales,
but I still want my own planet.
Buzz, You asked a question
Where was I at when
you walked on the moon?
Mister Aldrin, glued to TV,
Dreaming of being an astronaut
when the four-year-old body dozed.
Now, Can you get NASCAR to hold....
Lunar Buggy races on Fiftieth Anniversary?
Just joking (okay, I'd go),
But, folks, these are only
the first steps to take,
on our long journey ahead,
to spread out across space,
realizing that writers went first,
If only in tales mom's screamed over,
when they saw the racy covers bearing
gals in skin tight suits moon walking.
So, press on, you dreamers,
aim high, comic book readers,
we might not get super-heroes,
but we hold the potential
for most science fiction stories
to appear at last factual,
save that one bit about us nerds
always getting the girl in the end.
She'll always follow the money, fellas.
Unless we show them our brains.
20July2014- Dyfedd Rex, still wanting to have a batting cage on the Dark Side of the Moon, where can I buy that franchise at?
Okay, seriously, yes, a lot of the sci-fi tales are proving out slowly, and I know, the fiction was getting budgets to balance and pass quickly and consistently, that would let us live on the moon someday, sooner in tales than reality. But still, we got the guts, the tech, the brains, the desires, and most of all, the dreams.
And, thanks to the last few decades, we have the sparks lit in our youth, even if dimmed a few times by the reality that space is a dangerous place, and getting up there, and back down more so. But we should press on, and soon. I'd like to try space travel myself, before the ol' body gives up the ghost.
So, Besides the batting cage, where can I get the moon's first liquor license at, so I can open the first, true bar in space?
And, Buzz, if you see this, I tip the battered brown hat to you and the others who have been in the Black (in terms of my favorite sci-fi show. One of my first memories is of the landing at Tranquility. I wish things had gone different enough that I'd be on the moon right now, serving you a beer for the celebration, but I'd take the keys from your Lunar Rover, if I did, leaving them in that jar on the back-bar. Gotta have some responsibility. I can see you sitting down with Han Solo, James T. Kirk, Jean-Luc Picard, Malcolm Reynolds, Mister Garibaldi, and some others, tossing one back, as we celebrate making the first steps to their worlds, or our versions of the dreams those characters inspired in us, as did you, Neal, and the rest of the NASA astronaut corps and those other space pioneers out there. And I promise to make Han and Mal check their blasters/guns at the door.
And, thank god we have yet to see....
Asimov's robotic detective (other than on the silver screen)
Heinlein's practical joker computer (then again, seen a lot of checks with extra zero's issued by number crunching boxes).
Clarke's big monolith (but I really hope I live long enough to see a Beanstalk that works!).
Herbert's Butlerian Jihad and the mess it would create.
Whedon's Alliance and the Reaves they made.
and all the other bad things that we'll probably screw up and do anyway.
Oh, and everyone else. Keep the dream alive. Show your kids those stars, and dare them to get there.
And maybe, just maybe, we will come again in peace, to the moon, and many, many other places.
Except the bars. We know we'll have fights between the Trekkies, Browncoats, and Lucasites over which ships are faster. Guess I'll need Doc Savage as a bouncer.
-D.R.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
The Slime - A Poem of My Brain and Writing
Wading into the slime
that sloshes betwixt my ears
I find things never the same
as stories morph so wildly
during the early stages.
Waves of ooze slosh
as my head spins about
when characters toss me more surprises
conspiring darkly to meet up
in tale already spun.
The goo sticks everywhere,
as I wade deeper in,
seeking the true story amid rumors
that the characters spread about
to keep me confused.
Writer's Whip in hand,
I try to herd them
back to the trail laid out
only to find more strays
seeking their way in.
Maverick ideas agitate pools
here in the grey matter
as the tale winds around tight
forming into the IM-Hul feared
as they win out.
The slime aids them,
these rogues and renegade characters,
raising waves I must navigate somehow
in this vain-glorious effort
to tell their story.
Slushy stuff impedes movement
from thoughts to words set
by fingers over keys to electrons,
as the skull overheats rapidly
when they mentions stuff.
This is my fate.
Scrivener of tales never read,
yet still I write them, slowly,
seeking not fame, just peace,
from yammering voices inside.
Or is it true?
Is today just a nightmare?
Will I wake to find them
sitting patiently for another chance
to rebel from fates?
Who knows? Who cares?
The Ghosts walking the Savannah,
Dragons and elves plotting in mountains,
and war inside Assassin's Guild
sound a bit much.
Until, weaving it together,
I see the connections offered
by Billenius as he sips tea,
of a greater story here
waiting to erupt out.
Just hope my skull
holds the surging slime tight
to the channel now being dug
amid the folds and ridges
of my aching brain.
17July2014 - A Frustrated, yet writing, Dyfedd Rex
that sloshes betwixt my ears
I find things never the same
as stories morph so wildly
during the early stages.
Waves of ooze slosh
as my head spins about
when characters toss me more surprises
conspiring darkly to meet up
in tale already spun.
The goo sticks everywhere,
as I wade deeper in,
seeking the true story amid rumors
that the characters spread about
to keep me confused.
Writer's Whip in hand,
I try to herd them
back to the trail laid out
only to find more strays
seeking their way in.
Maverick ideas agitate pools
here in the grey matter
as the tale winds around tight
forming into the IM-Hul feared
as they win out.
The slime aids them,
these rogues and renegade characters,
raising waves I must navigate somehow
in this vain-glorious effort
to tell their story.
Slushy stuff impedes movement
from thoughts to words set
by fingers over keys to electrons,
as the skull overheats rapidly
when they mentions stuff.
This is my fate.
Scrivener of tales never read,
yet still I write them, slowly,
seeking not fame, just peace,
from yammering voices inside.
Or is it true?
Is today just a nightmare?
Will I wake to find them
sitting patiently for another chance
to rebel from fates?
Who knows? Who cares?
The Ghosts walking the Savannah,
Dragons and elves plotting in mountains,
and war inside Assassin's Guild
sound a bit much.
Until, weaving it together,
I see the connections offered
by Billenius as he sips tea,
of a greater story here
waiting to erupt out.
Just hope my skull
holds the surging slime tight
to the channel now being dug
amid the folds and ridges
of my aching brain.
17July2014 - A Frustrated, yet writing, Dyfedd Rex
Friday, September 27, 2013
NaNoWriMo 2013 - Coming up way too soon
Got lots of story ideas, still no clear idea of what to try this year. Planning on using it, as always, to drive job interview interruption-itis.
Well, Let's take a look at my early candidates.
Mr. Tanner still wants to tell me what he lost that week....and how, maybe even why, or at least why it's on his expense account requests.
Looking again at Crossing of the Shadows and Knife Has No Forgiveness. Two tougher pieces to write, both high fantasy, one a Billenius Tale, the other the final hunt of Scorpio Kenrai.
However, Scorpio seems to be talking about two different tale as well. Both are from early in his career, the first is Blade of Smoke and Shadows, on how he makes his first real friend among other peoples, and second tale being Blood of the Hunters, a story of an elemental demon that attacks his peoples, both of them, the blood ones and the adopted.
I also have been suffering from an idea that defied the efforts of being a short story, even in outline/research, a steam-punk mystery thing.
Then we have a true sci-fi tale, as CJ swung by about a moment ago and demanded to know when I planned on telling any of his tales.
Also in the wings is a dark tale told from the dragon's point of view about captivity in a circus, a tale of erotic horror/sci-fi that keeps popping up (The Harpies of Sheol) fighting it out with Mazetown (a cyber-punk erotic horror idea that died early on last year), and a mythic tale from my world called (for now) For the Honor of the Twenty-Third, about the fall of the Old North Empire.
Yeah, too many ideas, I know. Which is why you will see me working them out here over the next few weeks, narrowing them down, presenting the finalists for laughs and jeers, as well as maybe a few thumbs up. and then making a choice.
I will put up full synopses next week, after I take a few days to think it all over. And maybe even some maps of the places I am thinking about setting tales in.
Well, Let's take a look at my early candidates.
Mr. Tanner still wants to tell me what he lost that week....and how, maybe even why, or at least why it's on his expense account requests.
Looking again at Crossing of the Shadows and Knife Has No Forgiveness. Two tougher pieces to write, both high fantasy, one a Billenius Tale, the other the final hunt of Scorpio Kenrai.
However, Scorpio seems to be talking about two different tale as well. Both are from early in his career, the first is Blade of Smoke and Shadows, on how he makes his first real friend among other peoples, and second tale being Blood of the Hunters, a story of an elemental demon that attacks his peoples, both of them, the blood ones and the adopted.
I also have been suffering from an idea that defied the efforts of being a short story, even in outline/research, a steam-punk mystery thing.
Then we have a true sci-fi tale, as CJ swung by about a moment ago and demanded to know when I planned on telling any of his tales.
Also in the wings is a dark tale told from the dragon's point of view about captivity in a circus, a tale of erotic horror/sci-fi that keeps popping up (The Harpies of Sheol) fighting it out with Mazetown (a cyber-punk erotic horror idea that died early on last year), and a mythic tale from my world called (for now) For the Honor of the Twenty-Third, about the fall of the Old North Empire.
Yeah, too many ideas, I know. Which is why you will see me working them out here over the next few weeks, narrowing them down, presenting the finalists for laughs and jeers, as well as maybe a few thumbs up. and then making a choice.
I will put up full synopses next week, after I take a few days to think it all over. And maybe even some maps of the places I am thinking about setting tales in.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Solar Paparazzi - A Poem of Chasing Sunsets and Sunrises
Move a inch or a foot,
sometimes even a mile,
just to get that one shot
where the light is perfect
with a smudge of foreground
before the light show's glow.
I feel Orion's hand
guiding the camera
respecting my hunting
even if the sought prey
is not what he once stalked,
knowing my soul forages.
Not alone in this quest,
others join in nearby.
Shutters click, sighs, comments
all about our target
as she rises or sets
painting the sky gently.
We are the Solar Paparazzi,
seeking beauty around us each day
to share with others or just our souls.
Silhouettes dance wildly
before the changing sky
or stand still in respect
of the moment Ra dives
beneath the distant edge
where the world doth end.
Orange and pinks shine,
lavender hues sneak in
to try the tint limits
the tool in hand sets down
as the rules for this hunt,
which is a timed event.
Golden air, Angry reds
each color sends ciphers
read best by the elders
who know that lore from youth
and try to pass it down
across generations.
We are the Solar Paparazzi,
Rising early, bedding down later,
but we treasure every moment.
... unless Sol hides from our stalking lens.
31May2013 - Dyfedd Rex
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
This is World Building - a poem of writing and creation
I've walked this desert
since we played games
rolling dice for decisions.
It threw me loops
when I turned here
to set stories recently.
Every thing I thought
was set in stone
about the damned place
turned out as lies
or just shadows cast
by its underlying truths.
This is world building
it really never ends
when you look closer
you see the gaps
between known and mysteries
like fog of war.
So I started again,
making more detailed maps
fleshing out old notes
wringing out memories lost
to find some answers
to questions characters raised.
This is my world
I should know all,
like the gods do.
But still things appear
from some funny place
to twist it about.
I blame those characters.
16January2013
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Wilderness Withdrawal... a poem of Nature
It sneaks up on us
after our return
the withdrawal pains
as what we just saw
finally sinks in
and our hearts shatter
at leaving that place
the Wilderness deep
where thinking was all
we could do at night
amid Nature's glory.
So it always is
we know not the loss
until the moment
we face that construct...
....civilizaion.
15November2012, missing the Wilderness himself a bit
-Dyfedd Rex
Monday, October 29, 2012
Minotaur Pickup Herders - A twisty poem from a prompt.
from a while back, enjoy this programmed poem as NaNoWriMo eats my soul.... gah!
The pickup bounced on its springs
riding lower than any the hikers had seen
as the rancher drove by to gather his herd
and run them to roundup's branding.
They barely noticed those behind the wheel
until the truck was gone over the hill
and the tail end hiker called out loud
about the vikings helmet complete with horns
those in the cab seemed to be wearing.
Then came the screams of human fear,
as over the ridge was driven the heard
before the rage of three large minotaurs
and their cow queen with her large brown eyes
racing the Ford behind her gather,
into which the earthlings were hustled
off to the slaughter for meat to feed
the young her sisters still nursed
in the ranch house far off and away
in a hellish dimension of mythical beasts.
The pickup bounced on its springs
riding lower than any the hikers had seen
as the rancher drove by to gather his herd
and run them to roundup's branding.
They barely noticed those behind the wheel
until the truck was gone over the hill
and the tail end hiker called out loud
about the vikings helmet complete with horns
those in the cab seemed to be wearing.
Then came the screams of human fear,
as over the ridge was driven the heard
before the rage of three large minotaurs
and their cow queen with her large brown eyes
racing the Ford behind her gather,
into which the earthlings were hustled
off to the slaughter for meat to feed
the young her sisters still nursed
in the ranch house far off and away
in a hellish dimension of mythical beasts.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Ghosts Stop Lingering - A poem of Ghosts and such
and one more to make it officially the end of October... that scariest of months.
Still around.
They just won't leave.
Still walking halls, sitting in chairs
After bodies pass, the spirit lingers on too long
and when I dream each noisy night
the are still there
waiting for
something.
I know not.
But in those dreams
words of an old movie come to me
stop their lingering about this place they must leave
by simply doing what he said not to
and crossing the streams
watch them
implode.
Still around.
They just won't leave.
Still walking halls, sitting in chairs
After bodies pass, the spirit lingers on too long
and when I dream each noisy night
the are still there
waiting for
something.
I know not.
But in those dreams
words of an old movie come to me
stop their lingering about this place they must leave
by simply doing what he said not to
and crossing the streams
watch them
implode.
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