With gears and a switch in the heart
Soft tissue and sinew, electric
A hum and a hiss, push to start.
My song is a sweet revolution
Of human’s ascent to machine
Dark or bright, so may be the conclusion
As stomach gives way to the spleen.
It’s the end of the world, so they say
When the android kills off all of us
But while it’s far off we shall play
In the spaces where means meet the cause.
Bionic ears tell of hearsay
A ticking in lungs serves to prove
That, yes, we are so close to Doomsday
If not for the forces of love.
For love is the soul of the world
And the bright human spark lights the way
Robot and man shan’t be sold
But it’s the end of the world, so they say.
Anthropology
Deep in the dark of the human mind
Many a treasure explorer might find
The collective unconscious binds us man-to-man
Geometry in chaos, or some divine plan?
Plumbing these depths and achieving loft heights
There may be an image serving strangely to fright
Monsters and demons, a rock on a hill
Casting on children a frightening chill
Out of these symbols and grammars anew
Bards and orators, though many are few
Tell tales of strong heroes who do conquer all
And sometimes a despot that Fortune makes fall
Maybe the world was made in a day
By Raven, a turtle, or some spirit fey
Maybe bright Good wins over Evil foul
And Christ’s redemption saves a poor soul
But all I have learned of a myth’s staying power
Is how to laugh, and write, and while away an hour.
Mission to Orion
Reporting from the ship Lazarus II
Captain’s log, the year 3010
The time is 0300 hours, Orion Time
Give or take a second.
An anomaly pings on the screen
And I leave my seat to investigate.
My venture through the hull
Reveals nothing.
The crew sleeps.
Finnegan snores as before.
I am alone.
The ship hums.
Past the hydroponics station
I turn my gaze and the light
Diffuses into a dark emptiness
Where I hear a sound
Like the crinkling of paper.
I feel a cold hand on my throat.
The feeling stops, though my heart beats
Faster, 174 BPM, I think.
I blink my eyes, squeeze them shut
Open—
Then I see it.
The small ghost of someone I killed.
Standing before me.
A sad horror fills my thoughts.
I remember this.
The ghost remembers, too.
My eyes mist.
The ghost smiles
And melts into the metal of the ship.
Zhar-ptiza, the Firebird
There is a bird in Russian legend
Of fire-burning birth
Zhar-ptiza is her name
Bird of heat, with flesh of meat
And a long blood-orange peacock’s tail
Showing her earthly roots.
Her glowing eyes
Look into the hero’s face
And bestow a blessing and a curse.
Our hero, proud blond-haired Ivan
Completes each fresh trial
Each battle harder than the last
To claim Zhar-ptiza as his prize
Sent on the journey by the Czar his father
A radiant feather
Caught in a bramble
His first clue.
Oh, the troubles Ivan goes to
What dragons, sorcerers he slays
The promise he made to his father
Keeps him as his horse gallops
To lands far and away and strange.
When at last the bird is in his arms
Ivan asks, “So this is what I’m looking for?
“For this, a bird electric,
“I nearly died many a time,
“Though you, Zhar-ptiza, live forever.
“Kind helpers on the way,
“Brought me and my horse to you,
“But I wonder, was it worth the risk?
“For you, bright birdy, are beauty magical,
“Yet I doubt you much.”
Zhar-ptiza, nestled with a flutter
Looks into Ivan’s eyes
And with a voice sweet like sugar
Speaks:
“Dear Prince Ivan—
“I am no ordinary bird
“I glow with flames and sparks
“My feathers can keep you warm
“In cold taiga winters
“And the eggs that I lay
“Are Fabergé—”
She lets out a trilling laugh
Then continues:
“But my beak is sharp.”
Ivan looks down at the bird, puzzled.
He pulls down his cap over his ears with one hand
Cradling the Firebird in his other arm
Mounts his horse
And with a “Hya!” flies back
Down roads familiar
To the castle, his home.
Call on Me
Hazel sat at a desk stacked with flyers, business cards, and documents. Her hands, blessedly free of arthritis today, moved slowly; placed a flyer in front of her and a business card on the upper left corner of the flyer; stamped the stapler; and the ad was done. Hazel put it atop the stack to her left and reached for the stack to her right. There must be more to life than this, she thought. After a few more minutes, she got up and made a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen. Carrying it back to her desk, she stopped in her tracks. There was a hot cup of coffee already on her desk, in plain sight. She put her cup down and slumped into her chair. Her hands now moved to take off her bifocals, now to cover her eyes. Not this again, she thought. Not now.
The ads couldn’t wait. Mr. Hardy would be cross if he didn’t have them by morning. And at least tomorrow Hazel would be working a half day, leaving the afternoon clear. The office was quiet, it was dark out, she was alone. “What I wouldn’t mind,” she said to herself, “is a nice government job. Union. Security. That’s what these old bones need.” The clock ticked on the wall. A hum came from the central air. Hazel’s hands found her bifocals and slipped them back on. Sighing, she continued her task until late.
The next day, she arrived at work, and Mr. Hardy greeted her with a smile. As Hazel sat down at her desk, he patted the stack she’d prepared and said, “Thank you, Ms. Saunders, that is swell. I have no more urgent work for you. Just the phones today.”
Hazel started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Ms. Clemens will be in later to cover the second half of your shift.” Hazel nodded. Mr. Hardy grinned down at her. Finally, he moved off and said, “That will be all.”
The rest of the morning went smoothly. When she came home, she unplugged the phone and drew a bath. When night fell, she slept with a smile on her lips.
The next morning, she rose earlier than usual and plugged the phone back in. There was a voicemail message for her: “Ms. Saunders, as you did not come in for your interview, scheduled for 1:30 PM today, and did not give notice of this, I regret to inform you that your employment application is respectfully declined.” Hazel gripped the phone receiver to her ear and felt tears prick her eyes. All she could do now was swallow her sadness and go to work. Like nothing had changed. At least she still had a job at the office.
Back in the office, her dreary work in reception went on as before. Hazel was resigned to her fate. I will probably die at this desk, she t
hought.
Mr. Hardy came storming over. “Hazel,” he said in a harsh whisper, “I told you to mind the toaster oven when you heated up those sandwiches of yours.” Sweat rolled down his forehead. “You nearly caused a fire. It was too close a call.” He paused. “You’re fired.”
Hazel nodded and gathered her things in a box. Shaking hands with staff on the way, she walked out of the office for the last time. As soon as she opened the door to her house, the phone rang. Setting her box down, she hurried to answer. A friendly voice was on the other end – “Hazel, it’s Phil. We have a job opening at the Ministry and I’m recommending you. Can you come in right now?”
“Yes,” she said. “I know the way.”
Lupita’s Scarf
Lupita and Consuela sat on the curb with ginger ales in their hands. Lupita’s brows were knitted and she picked at her jeans where they were torn at the knees. “Consuela,” she said, “when’s the last time your mom bought you new clothes?”
Consuela laughed and took a sip of soda. “You’re a funny one. You know we only sew our own clothes.” She paused. “But there was that one time, two years ago. Gabriella’s boyfriend José bought her a leather miniskirt. They broke up soon after and she gave it to me. So, in a way, Josito bought me a new piece of clothing.”
“I’m not talking about hand-me-downs,” Lupita said. She finished drinking her ginger ale. “I mean, when did you have money, or your mama or your papa have money to buy you something that was pretty and new?” She crumpled the can in her hands.
“Well,” Consuela said carefully, “I can’t say I remember.”
“Just as well,” Lupita said, then tossed the soda can onto a street littered with trash. “At least we can dream.” Consuela didn’t say anything, but looked down at her flip-flops.
“All right, Consuela, I better head back in. I think the screaming stopped. Maybe they didn’t break anything this time. But you never know.” Lupita hugged her friend goodbye. “See ya.”
With a heavy heart, Lupita walked up to the door of her row house and went inside. There wasn’t anything shattered on the floor that she could see, and there was silence. Out of nowhere, her father’s arm flung out and gave her a hard slap. “And take your whore of a daughter, too,” he yelled, and stormed out of the house.
Lupita staggered, then recovered herself. Her cheek stung. She found her mother packing a briefcase. “Get your things, Lupita,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re leaving.”
“Again?”
“No. Forever. Really this time.” Her mother smoothed her hands over a bundle covered with blue tissue in her briefcase. Mother and daughter had tears in their eyes. “I’ll find a job,” her mother said. “We’ll be fine.”
Lupita nodded, then ran to her room. She grabbed her laptop, some clothes, and her piggy bank in the shape of a frog. There was a small trunk under her bed, into which she put her things. On her dresser was a fashion magazine she found in the street. Flipping the pages rapidly, she drank in and memorized the designs one last time. With a flick of her wrist, she threw it into the trash can, then joined her mother in the other room.
“Where is it?” Lupita pin-balled around the apartment, rifling through drawers and turning things over. “I can’t find it!” There was a hysterical note in her voice.
“Where is what?” her mother asked, standing at the stove.
“My frog! My big green frog!”
“Oh, the ceramic frog? Consuela came in earlier to take it back. She said you borrowed it from her.”
“She did … what?!” Lupita groaned. Her hand flew to her eyes. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“Why are you so upset?”
“That frog was a piggy bank. It had all the money I was saving to buy a new dress. A French dress. From Paris.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She came to Lupita and embraced her. “I’ll get it back for you tomorrow.”
Lupita sighed into her mother’s shoulder.
“You know,” her mother said, “I have something for you.” She let Lupita go and went to the bedroom. Returning, she held out her hands, which held a bundle covered in blue tissue paper. “I was saving this for your Saint’s Day, but I think you should have it now.”
Lupita reached out and unwrapped the tissue. In her mother’s hands was a beautiful scarf in a red and gold pattern. The label said: “Louis Vuitton.” The L-and-V symbol dotted the fabric. It was the real thing.
Burger Breath
I’m playing Diablo XI and I’m high off my arse. Out of the haze of marijuana smoke, my eyes and hands coordinate with the mouse, keyboard, and monitor. There is a lucid moment when I stab into ogres and skeletons and monsters, but then a cloud settles over me. My reflexes take over, from some ancient, primordial part of my brain, and I complete the level. To celebrate, I reach for a french fry but a celery stick makes it to my mouth. I chomp on it philosophically. My stomach rumbles and I realize I have the munchies. As I eat the celery, I muse on the situation: no junk food, anywhere, ever, in this messed-up country. Not since Rudford passed that bill last year. But weed is okay in his books, apparently. I chow on some baby carrots and ponder my dilemma with a smoke-addled brain. I must have a burger and fries, I decide. I’ll die if I don’t.
I sit back from the computer and close my eyes. Visions of crisp french fries come to me, gooey red ketchup on the side. A memory passes over me: the tactile and gustatory sensations of biting into a hot dog for the first time when I was 10. Tacos. Pizza. Calzones. Buffalo wings. Garlic sticks. And of course, my beloved post-game Doritos and Cheetos. My eyes open. The visions disappear. All that’s left is the chilly basement, a plate of veggies and dip, and this fit, muscular body of mine, damn it to hell. Just one burger, I reason, just one can’t hurt me. Curse the legislation! I will have my fast food.
My mother calls from the main floor and I lumber up the stairs for dinner: baked skinless chicken breasts, steamed root vegetables, and a heap of whole-wheat noodles. Again. I choke it down but hide my displeasure.
The same night, the visions haunt me. I dream of sugary donut holes dancing with golden fries. A giant juicy hamburger grows a pair of lips and talks to me in a sultry voice: “I know you want me. But you can’t have me.” Varicoloured mandalas made of pizza slices spin and mesmerize me like a kaleidoscope. Around 6 AM, I wake up with the taste of grease on my lips. And a plan.
On the outskirts of the city, there is a man who sells contraband groceries – so I’ve heard. How he keeps a step ahead of the law, I don’t know. But I will find him. I shave, brush my teeth, and put on my navy tracksuit. Mom is still asleep. I slip on my sneakers and head out, careful not to make any noise. Then I run.
I run and run, down sidewalks, roads, and alleyways; down the sanitized streets of the city. Gradually, the scenery changes. The houses come in small and bunched together. There are fewer trees here. A dingy dirtiness covers everything like a film. I’m close. I can almost feel hamburger meat between my teeth. I’m getting tired and slow to a jog. As I’m catching my breath, something flies in from the left and pushes me to the ground. I look up and see a gun pointed at my head. “You’re in the wrong part of town, pal,” the man says. I look him in the face – he’s pale. And covered with pimples and scars.
“Hey, man,” I say, getting up. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You’re not from around here,” he says, sizing me up. He’s still pointing the gun at me. I notice he’s holding a paper bag in his other hand. I smell a long-lost smell. I ask, “Is that …? Is that a hamburger?”
“So what if it is?” He sneers. I look at the bag, then him. He’s pudgy, and his breaths come in laboured. He’s got zits on his arms. On his nose. Suddenly, all I feel is disgust.
“Like I said,” I say, “I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me … But if I were you, I’d rethink my dietary choices.”
He’s too surprised to say anything, and I take the opportunity to give him the slip. I
bolt for home. And I don’t stop.
A Mafioso’s Heart
Rosa went through her scrapbooks and photo albums in a frenzy. Tearing and ripping up the pages and pictures. She found a poem he had written for her and tore it into tiny pieces, too. A white-gold bracelet, a gift from him, lay mangled and charred on the floor, among other broken gifts, mementos. Tears fell down her cheeks. She got up from the floor and grabbed a box from her closet. As she put the fragments and debris into the box, she cursed him over and over. “How could you leave me?” she cried. She reached for the permanent marker on her desk. On the box before her, she wrote “I will destroy you” in thick letters. She pulled the lid over the box and set it down near the door to her apartment. Soon, she thought, soon enough.
The next week, Rosa skipped class on a day she thought he would be home. After showering, she adorned herself with her prettiest skirt and top, black pumps, and a dab of Chanel N°5. She took care with her makeup and hair, tending to them lovingly. Grabbing her purse and the box, she headed out. A short subway commute and a long bus ride later, she was in his neighbourhood. At this point, she had some walking to do.
He always said with pleasure how much he likes living away from the noise of the city. But you won’t get away from me, she thought. Soon, his mansion came into view. The gates were closed, but she knew where the secret entrance was, and that’s where she went – around the side. She skirted the mansion until she was at the front door. The box trembled in her hands as she set it down. Hopping in her heels, she moved towards the windows and tried to look between the curtains. It was then that a deep voice said, “Rosa Kalinina,” and she felt a hand on her arm.
Rosa twisted around in shock. It was Oleg, Alexei’s bodyguard. Head down, she allowed herself to be escorted off the property. On the grass, she noticed with heart-rending misery the heart-shaped lawn ornaments she had given him. The sound of the gates clanging behind her shot a jolt through her body. Gritting her teeth, she walked until the house and Oleg were out of sight, then pulled out her phone.
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