Archive for December 11th, 2008


Amidst the stars where empires fell

Wanderers make their living there.

Existence is harsh yet life prevails

While warlords tear away at cosmos.

Along the Spiral Run there dwells

A place known to few along clusters.

Ancients refer to it as the Refuge.

These wanderers call it home.

A name was given to it eons ago

In a tongue no longer spoken.

Where did the name have its origins?

Among the stars like so many others.

Let the wanderers find their home again

Even if it’s a place they’ve never been.

Beckon the gate to open once more,

And unleash the reverie of ages past.

When will all be normal for us?

Will the Age of Decay ever end?

All questions are what we know to speak,

For we’ve forgotten the words to the song.

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Thursday, December 11th, 2008 Poetry No Comments

My Future

Several years ago in college, we were given an assignment to do a write-up of where we saw ourselves in fifty or so years. Naturally, I did mine in story form. This was the result.

It is October the 2nd, 2052. 7 P.M. at night. Scenery scrolls by from the car window on my right side. The smooth hum of the electric engine echoes a soft vibration from beneath my feet. I catch my reflection in the windowpane. Sags have grown under my eyes after years of staring at words all my life. A thick head of gray hair, styled forty years out of date, lies atop my loose scalp – my own head of hair, no less. I tap on the transparent surface with my ring finger. The gold wedding band clinks as it lightly touches the surface.

The car is long with cushioned seats facing each other in the back, the interior of a limo. I’m being driven someplace. Two younger people are in the seats facing me. One is a woman in short cut polymer dress, while the other – a male – sits bow-legged in a color-shifting tuxedo. Both appear chipper, if relaxed, while my expression is a bit vexed. Both appear to be in their late twenties, and slightly resemble me in the face. Yet they have their mother’s dark brown eyes.

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” I say aloud with a grumble.

“You said you’d do it for Mom,” the woman replies. “She’s been planning it for months.”

“I didn’t ask her to plan it, Karen.” I turn away for a moment, gazing out the window again.

“Dad, just view this as something that’s been long in coming,” the younger man chimes in. “I mean, hell, they made a movie about it.”

My eyes close, but I smile a bit. “It was a pretty bad one at that, too.”

“What’d you expect? Look at the director they chose,” he laughs.

The car slows to a stop in front of an amphitheater. Both of my progeny quickly jump out. It takes a bit longer for me to roust myself from the seat – more due to my reluctance than any actual physical impairment. A banner is flying over the Romanesque exterior. It reads:


The series that I’d written over twenty years ago – five books total. All of which chronicled the misadventures of three space-borne outcasts, and was later made into three movies. The characters were horribly miscast, but they kept the story intact somewhat, which surprised me. I never thought it was my best work, but I had the most fun writing it.

On the exterior steps, a dignified brown-haired woman (five years my junior) races down. Even at her age, she still possesses an inhuman sense of grace – the woman who became my muse. She flashes me her token grin. I return her jovial gesture with a partial half-smile – awkward.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

“No,” I respond.

“Good,” she says, kissing me on the cheek as we walk up.

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Thursday, December 11th, 2008 Prose No Comments

I work for tea money.


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