Branwe: Part I

Hark! I, Pessius the Bard sing to thee a tale of Branwe McCullum. Aha. So you've not run? Well, mayhaps, you should. For Branwe's tale is not one for the faint of heart. Aha. Ahem. Gather! Gather round children, sister and rogues, for I see upon my lyric sheet a mighty battle!

It's much further on than you think, but in order to understand it we have to harken to the early deeds of Branwe McCullum. Not quite as exciting as a hairy faced battle, but there's some life to it. I swear on my sworn oath, I do swearity swear unto thee, fair populace that fun and ribald bedtime scenes await aplent if you'll just sit still a moment.

Begin we in the Cresent Kindom, where our hero began his adventures. In a tavern he found his friend and right arm, Garth. I did not pick these names, fair persons, bear with me a moment longer. And a stout hearted madmad named Flint of the Guard. Flint Thongbeard, I say, and thereby avoid prosecution, I pray. Ahem. Indeed.

King Felini, I jest not, a noble man of Cresent Desent, pardon the errors, but this King needed patrols. And so, throughout the land he sent for men from the taverns to patrol his entire kingdom, including a rather horrible swamp, the Blood Swamp. Okay, the Fire Blood Swamp, filled with rain and pestilence, where heroes get lost and monsters eat the flesh of men. Nay, do not sob at the thought, for that is just what monsters must do and they've found a taste for it, so all's the better.

Flint entered the lusty tavern and called, "I need two men for patrol." Branwe, being neither smart, nor brave, averted his eyes. But Garth, being stupid and painfully daring spoke.

"If we join up, do we get gold?" Garth asked.

"Yes," Flint said.

"How much?" Garth asked.

"Fifty gold pieces," Flint said.

"Well," Garth said, "No way I'm risking my ass for fifty gold."

"Fifty gold will buy many a drink and a bath," Branwe said. "I wish to join you, sir. I will gladly fight for fortune and justice by the people whose grace I kindly spate in the-"

"Right," Flint said. "Tell your friend, Lord Goldhole, that he's coming too. By Order of the King!"

"I'm not moving," Garth said. "Let's see him try and kill me before we've ever got started. My ageless mystical longsword will make a quick end to this tale." At this, over twenty guards from various wars and adventures came in to assist.

"I'd rather die here," Garth said, "Than risk my neck for fifty gold pieces in some fop's swamp. Plus, I'll kill all of you gents as well."

"Brother," Branwe pleaded, "Perhas we will find lots of treasure and hone our skills in said swamp."

"There's no treasure in a swamp," Garth said.

"Oh," Flint said, "Did I forget to mention you may keep any of the legendary treasures of Fire Blood Swamp that you find for your own?"

"Fine," Garth sighed, "But I'm going to complain the whole way."

"You will be entitled to it, Brother," Branwe grinned.

"How's that?" Garth asked.

"Your noble song of lament will grease the wheels of rainsoaked time as we," Branwe paused, "Help. The. Land?"

"Good enough," Flint said. "Get some rest. We leave at dawn."

"Um," Branwe said, "Dawn? Hmmmm. You see, we're adventurers and we've kinda planned on a long night. I've got these ripe bananas and some copper pieces for the ladies-"

"Dawn," Flint said.

"Right," Branwe said. "Dawn it is. We'll see you in a little bit."

to be continued...

Michael and Milligan

Underneath the dirt, lay tunnels. Tunnels made by hand. Man made crossways ducked under, popped up and out. People lived there. A person lived there alone. Many bodies lived alone, but not like the ones that lived under the earth. Meals bracketed hardships. Beautiful meals, overflowed from restaurants that kept customers happy, fell into holes. If a body was careful, fine dining arrived unspoilt.

Two men sat in a rain gutter, eating escargot. The shells ran off somewhere, but the feeble clinging life of a mollusk gave up the goods in a fine sauce of pinot gris to a homeless man. They conversed.

“It tickles the pallet,” Michael said.

“Indeed, it does,” Milligan agreed. “A plateful of this cud and we’re barons on a hill.”

In poor taste, the snail mixed with grain alcohol. Such is life. The sluttard pinch of dirt fell into the eye, no matter what the master wrought.

“The terrible price of luxury,” Milligan added.

“The delicate sounds we hear,” Michael said. They came to be a duo by chance. One, an expert at procuring shelter and the other an elder statesman of the rails, they traveled and stopped for a bite. Scud waters be damned as drips trickled down the old hole where they sat. Outside a grand metropolis, the leavings grew posh. Paris ran over at the brim with such frilly larder. It was all they could do to keep up with the high spirits of society. The liquor came from Portugal, apparently.

“Sewers,” said Milligan, “Wot we got ere’s sewers.”

“Find a hole that hides the rain and we hide from the rain in it,” Michael said. He stuffed his face with more mash and periwinkles. The two were a pair. Straight from a hot oven of London, cross the channel and into French Country.

A car hummed.

“Corvair,” Michael said.

“As if,” Milligan said. “Oi. Bleedin’ car costs money. Not to bother.”

“Napes,” Michael agreed, “Divine patience brings a sweet reward. No need of money.”

“A noble thought,” Milligan agreed. “Have we any?”

“Not a scrap,” Michael admitted. “Why?”

“No, nevermind,” Milligan said, “Once you’re wet, you’re wet, right?”

“Right,” Michael agreed. “A treat!” Under a coat, he slid and un-hid a bottle of Moet et Chandon.

“Gaw,” Milligan squawked, “Where’d you get that then?”

“Pinched off the last case outside Hotel,” Michael said. Pop, went the cork and they sipped gently in the rain. Gutter leaves whirled in eddies past the two men as they supped. Wax paper unfolded and revealed branch and tinder.

“Water run off my hot back is nice, but the chill,” Milligan said.

“Spot on, spot on,” Michael agreed. Fire breathed orange on them. They sank down low. Fuel for the night was a tire. A tire burned long. The smell wafted away with the cool draught of rain soaked air through the pipes. A bright white light sung too boldly into the night. Mumbled indignities flowed from the road.

“Piss off, ya bink,” Michael shouted. Freedom of speech set things right. In the ugly dusk of evening, a foul phrase could chase of the ghost of civil shakes. People of the world barely noticed the enlightened filth when trod upon. A large envelope made of gasses sealed in the rock on which the stage was held. Cold, empty black outside the packet waited for any over ambitious bag of guts that fancied a walk outside the bosom of the planet. Michael asserted his equality through voice. “You’ll not have me as your pit,” he said. The voices relinquished the air.

Purple adorned the sky as a royal sign that night was nigh. The two fellows set about their business.

“Ere,” Milligan said. “Drop some of that heather on the tire. Nice smell. God. I’m loose already. Fokkin clear night in France.”

“Is,” Michael agreed. “Kay, that’s better. Listen to the old fools. Rain’s bout to stop. Fit for a lie down a bit.”

“I’ll watch,” Milligan said. Michael chewed and chewed to sleep with a few nogs off the bottle.

“Mind it,” Milligan continued, “If some Frank comes round have us off, we’ll go up pipe.

“Kay, that’s better,” Michael said. The shell of consciousness parted for a while and he was warm, sleeping by the fire. Milligan enjoyed the voices after the rain. Water echoes and voices sounded slick. What a terribly wonderful night, with its chill and heat. The ball of nested humanity found shelter in overworked barns, stables and flats. Small mammalian creatures huddled for warmth, their blood thick and convectuous. Little pots of fat, floating in a water too deep to fathom. All shelter broke, eventually. Milligan pondered the tenant status of the human race and wondered if anyone knew how close the end was for all.
We float, he thought. Air currents and water currents and all the elements blended up in a big machine too vast to understand in a finite set of circuits. Magnets and hammers moved lava, more precisely, magma, under his feet. Well below his rough shod feet, the earth stirred.

The bowels of the earth made no excuses. It needed none. It did. And so did Milligan. He made his own, he guessed. Others would find fault with his reason, he knew, but it was his reason that made him who he was. Milligan knew himself a King among serfs. The serfs, poor addled souls as they were, thought the world a place to be humbled. Milligan knew. No man could gather the earth round all at once. It was too big. Nonsense. Ownership was the grand delusion. What if a man finds his situation tolerable? Then there was no need for ownership of anything. But the price, the grand, grand price of being freed. It worked its way down his spine in trickles.

“I have a question,” Milligan said.

“Gurrphhn,” Michael complained.

“Would you take a nice hot bath and steaming plate of meat right now if offered?” Milligan asked. It was pure fancy, speculation on his part. It sent Michael’s sleep soaked mind into pools of steamy relaxation. He tasted a bite of hot, raw meat mentally.

“Fog,” Michael called, “What’s this?” He swigged lightning. “Awk. Whoo.” Rain dripped down his hat. “Plate of meat? Course I would. You?”

“Ah,” Milligan sighed. The slick oil of liquor graced his lips. “Praps.” He belched. “The meat, sure. Bath warm? Hmmmmmm.” Silver hot liquid fled his throat to his belly. “Oh. Wonders.”

Michael nipped off again to dreams in which cool milk slid over wheat cereal on a long, long table. These men, hardy souls, enjoyed their caste to the limit. The questions of bath and of meat were moot. The price for those were slavery to the wheel. A humble life fit them properly. The finest things occasionally fell from table, down the drain and out to them. Careful, careful and mindful men could live such as Kings on the fringe.

In dreams, Michael knew of a doctor who’d tied himself down to land and wife. A miser of a man, he was, and beholden to all that is good and proper. The carcass of life stank with decay. Some terrible choice men make.

“S’pose I’ll nod as well,” Milligan said. “Tent up?”

“If you please,” Michael mumbled.

Milligan stuck sticks in the ground, and threw the tarp over them. The glow of burned tired kept them company throughout the night.

The sky broke, powder blue in Michael’s eyes. The sockets hurt a bit. The gut sloshed. He paddled off behind the pipe for a quick relief. Milligan still slept. Half a bottle greeted the morn, and they were off for the north, to Germany. It would be a long haul with a dozen switches if no one bounced them off the line.

KOSMOS: Part 1

North Hollywood
February 28th
1997

09:00:00 PMT

Officer Trent radioed in the call, two suspects entering Laurel Canyon Bank of The States armed and wearing masks. The suspects disappeared into the bank. Officer Trent waited for a response.

“534, this is dispatch,” the radio squawked, “Be advised we are sending another car. Request that you observe and wait.”

“A car?” Officer Trent asked, “Send a tank. These guys look-“ A siren cut him off. “Shit,” he said, “Kill the noise, will ya?”

A man in all black kicked open the door of the bank and began shooting. He used an automatic riffle. It was an AK-47, a Kalashnikov, just like in the movies. His partner emerged from the opposite side, firing another automatic rifle. The radio asked questions. People were dropping. Officer Trent heard the call for officer down. Explosions and gunfire surrounded him.

Although the general public loves a spectacle, few people lingered to watch the shootout. Those that did, saw a boy fall from the sky. He was covered head to toe in midnight blue, except for his face and hair. His eyes poked through a blue figure eight mask. A monogram of a ringed planet crossed by the shape of a comet, making a ‘k’, graced his chest.

He landed on the sidewalk, fifty-seven feet from the bank entrance. The cement snapped under him, sending shards and dust into the air. The suspect turned his weapon. Rings of light jumped out of the boy’s hands. The bullets ricocheted off the rings. He approached the robber slowly, deflecting auto fire.

He slapped the gun away from the assailant. His left fist turned milky bright and slammed into the man’s chest, knocking him out. The boy kicked the gun away and walked through the bank.

He came out the other side, behind the second gunman. He yanked the gun up and away. The robber turned and looked at him. The boy smiled. The robber ended up on his back, with the boy smiling down at him. A hand closed around his neck, and with a gentle pressure, the robber blacked out.

Vacation

Scan the giant green
Whole fields of rolling
Whole wheat a'boiling
Down in the cracks
Of the glacial valley.

Step, gray, step
On granite.
Float in and out forever.
Wait 'til the end comes
We fall in a brainscream.

Breathe in, our hair whips
Past as we
Rush downward calling
The ground up
Towards us the
Last time we'll ever do this,
I swear.

The Road to Emmaus: XIII

Murphy scowled at the television. Only three stations carried signals. TBS had cartoon marathons with no commercials. MTV had replays of old sports games. Channel Seven had the news. The television habbit died a hard death. He kept it on for noise.

"Happy?" Jake asked.

"Shut up," Murphy said. He swallowed beer. He stayed in his robes constantly and they stank. Every idea they tried backfired. Jake seemed pleased. "You know, I'm starting to see why they didn't like you the first time around," he said.

"Do you know the origins of the word 'scapegoat'?" Jake asked. Murphy drank more beer.

"I want to tell you a story," Jake continued. "It used to be a very popular one. It's about these two guys, kinda like you except there's two of them. They're walking down this road and a stranger comes up to them..."

"No," Murphy said. "No stories. Fix this," he gestured at the TV. "All you do is tell stories and little joke miracles and you let people walk all over you. Even the Pope laughed at you. No more. Fix us. Fix this."

Jake stared at him. Murphy gave up.


********************************************************

She could see a little. Sunlight winking off the ocean, blurry faces, small fires. This is what she saw. Dempsey's grey coat fluttered.

"You know," he said, "The last time you spoke was yesterday." She had a thousand responses. She knew where they were and what he'd done to get them here. It didn't matter to her one bit.

"Thank you," she said. He winced. He put the blanket over her knees.

"Look," he said, "I wrote reports for people. I had no idea."

"Dempsey," a man called, climbing the hill. "Someone got word out about Virginia."

"Huh?" Dempsey stood frozen.

"You go down to the tent," the man said, "I'll stay with her."

"Take me down there," she said. The men looked at her, at each other.

They took her to the tent. She saw moving parts of a great blob. She smelled the strange aroma of men in close quarters. Their voices wove in and out of a great conversation.

"Hal," the old man said, "This is Dempsey. And this is Erin." She got a feel for the man instantly.

"He's the one from Maryland?" she asked. Dempsey affirmed. "Mr. Kermin, we all appreciate what you've done," she said. "My eyes are bad, so forgive me if I'm not familiar with the contents of your flier. I trust it had most of the information in it?"

A silence ensued. Many other men gathered around. The wispering started.

"Thank you," she said to him. "Dempsey, have your man take me back to the hill." The old man did as she said.

Hal watched her go. "Does she have any idea," Hal began.

"Yeah," dempsey cut him off. "She, um, was injured in the first wave of bombs and then," he stopped, "She knows."

"Why don't they kill us?" Hal asked.

"We're working on that," Dempsey said. "They might still do it. They have the time."

"What's she really like?" Hal asked.

"Just as you saw her," Dempsey said. "Cold."

The Road to Emmaus XII

Simon woke in a bare gray room. He sat at a table and his diary was on it. The door across from him opened. A man entered. This older gentleman sat across from him and opened the diary.

"Simon," he asked, "Do you know who I am?"

"No," answered Simon.

"Do you have any memory of how you got here?" the man asked.

"No," Simon replied.

"Do you remember anything at all?" the man asked.

"That," he pointed, "It's mine. I want to read it."

"You will," the man lit a cigarette. "Right now you're under observation. We're trying as best we can to help you. Do you remember anyone from your past?"

"No," Simon said.

"You're a brave guy, Simon," the man said, "I've read this over ten times and I can't for the life of me figure out how anyone in your condition could pull this off. We've already had you looked at bya few neurologists, did a few MRIs, basic stuff. We'll be getting all the results back in a few hours. We'll know for sure then."

The man puffed on his cigarette. Simon froze.

"Wait," Simon said. The man lifted an eyebrow.

"I am waiting," the man. His voice sounded dangerous.

"Can I have one of those?" Simon asked. The man stood up. He tossed the pack on the table.

"Coming out," he said, and the door opened. Simon opened the pack. The door shut. He couldn't find a lighter. No lighter, no diary, he realized.

The Road to Emmaus XI

"All I've got is rumors," Hal Kermin said, "Some people escaped Virginia." They sat together in a crowded coffee bar inside the King of Prussia Mall.

"I've got access to a press," Evan Gherrity said, "There's five, maybe six guys willing to start around two. If we trickled in during the day, maybe." He crossed is legs. "I don't know."

"No," Hal said, "I'm watched. You got a deck of cards at home?"

"Somewhere," Evan answered.

"Grab our stuff and throw it away," Hal said, "Pocket what's under my napkin. Stick it in the deck of cards. Tell your guys to be ready. Pick the smartest one of the bunch, one good with numbers. Get the cards to him without meeting. Never say anything on the phone."

Evan looked down at his cup.

"You'll figure something out," Hal said, "Do what I say and sit back down. We'll make some small talk, then go run two quick errands. Go home, load the deck and figure it out."

Evan inhaled. Hal stared. Evan got up, grabbed the trash and walked to the bin. Under Hal's napkin was a business card. Without looking, he wiped his hands on the napkin, reached into his pocket and took out his keys. The business card dropped in his pocket. He fiddled with his keys. He walked back to the table and sat.

"You won't hear from me until this is all over," Hal said. "Still planning that evacuation to Denver?" Evan nodded. He thought of his wife and kids. He knew Hal well enough to take his word on this. "Yeah," Hal said, "Probably best. Smart. Everyone needs to be smart to stay safe. I just don't feel safe here anymore. Neither should you. Denver will be safer, but the whole world's gone nuts. You know what I do when things get nuts?" Hal asked.

"What?" Evan asked.

"I go somewhere nice, like Denver. I take a break from the wife and kids and go camping. I don't even bring a phone." Hal said. "Come to think of it, I know a guy out there who can work on your house while you get away for a while. You're wife can relax. He's a good guy. I'd trust him to work on my house. My kids liked him too."

Evan stood up. "Let him know the house needs work. It's good to have contractors you know."

"Don't shake hands," Hal said, "Go run your errands. I'll have my handy man check out the house even before you get there."

"Thanks," Evan said. Hal watched him walk away. They hadn't fooled anyone, he knew, but there was a chance the truth would get out of Pennsylvania. One good thing about rumors, he thought, is that they spread like a virus.