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Man of Straw
The snow capped, rusty corn stalks
sway
The grain gone to
bellies of birds
and granary bins
I meditate on
The unemployed scarecrow's lopsided smile
his outstretched arms
his posture
An invitation to dance?
I wonder...
On a whim
I look for footprints in the snow
|
William C. Burns, Jr. ~ 
A Princess 4~ever in Waiting
A Tower was erected
built with the finest imported stones from across the seas
This tower ~ tall, strong, attractive and proud
Built in genius dimensions
to shelter the finest bonificated offering
here is
A princess 4-ever in waiting
many visit with promises
rich only in word not in soul
coin bladdering the purpose
dreamers forgetting the worth
poets with no direction
time has worn these perfectly crafted stones
but the foundation is very bruted
experiences are rounding the corners
of some of those formed gems
ahhh, but it adds character
false prince's come and are sent away
more false presentations
more refusals
they try to use your gifts for selfish gain
the battle goes on
A Princess 4-ever in waiting
in such a tower
Scars are forming
weakening slightly the erection
reinforcements applied
tear's soaking her stone
warping the base
but still casting a proud shadow
a few more reinforcements
some shade for shelter
sealed crevaces for warmth
away from prying eyes
they stare in want
one window closed
your need excells
more tears roll down your path
never reaching the bottom
never to the end just yet
how you wish it sometimes would
The tower has many breezes
past repairs lessen the lustre
but it still attracts
stained
A Princess 4-ever in waiting
small breaths only remain
the moat dried
protectors sparce
only dawn eluminates the vision
paupers share space
painting stones
crack filler
foundation
rememberance
living the wake
faith wavers
slow motion
all beauty still remains
walking the shadows
purified upon his arrival
all windows closed-sealed
but one
this one is
brighter than hope's madness
A Princess 4-ever in waiting
Sandra Lovegrove ~
All Part of the Sixties ~ Part 1
The Beatles sang to please, please me
We popped a pill and love was free.
The Stones began to roll their own,
Chichester sailed the world alone.
The Pope was talkin' safe T.V.
And nothin' shown above the knee.
P.J. Proby showed his arse.
The Bay of Pigs had turned to farce.
Me, I was lookin' for free love.
Then Gable quit this mortal life,
The gamekeeper fucked his lordships wife.
Caine had found the Ipcress files
When Cilla sang of Alfie's trials.
And Ulverston's most famous son,
No more through Lonesome pines would run.
Marilyn Monroe, alone in bed,
Died there, or so they said.
Me, I was still lookin'
Frost sent chills through Downing street,
Kennedy and Dallas where destined to meet.
Christine Keeler swore she saw,
Profumo in a state of war.
Henry's hammer, crumpled Clay
Then his chance was ripped away.
Lillian Board, we never knew,
Would lose her fight at twenty-two.
Me, I cried for Lillian.
The Krays were passing time in jail,
When Python blazed their zany trail.
The Mini loved to hug the ground,
Till Shrimpton turned it upside down.
Then McGowan in her starting blocks,
Sent Mary Whitehouse into shock.
And James Bond shared his fatal charms,
While Kids were minus legs and arms.
Me, I was still lookin' for love.
A nation stunned in silence stands,
For children lost at Aberfan
Martin Luther denied his dream,
By James Earl Ray or so it seemed
With cry's of help to Uncle Sam,
We heard "Good morning, Vietnam."
And children's pleading echo's still,
Across the Moors where they were killed.
Me, I stopped believin' there was a god.
Stanley Worthington ~
Untitled
I am a woman,
or close enough.
I feel complete anger,
not a cheap imitation.
Do not tell me how to be,
how to be sweet & not think too much.
I am a piece of art,
of poetry.
So are You.
Do not let my opinion frighten You,
it is mine, only mine.
And who am I to intimidate?
Just a girl, I guess.
Megan Wright ~
Awakening
Smooths the water with gentle motions
crystal pool on the mountains
leaning forward dark hair falling
eyes are closed, mind is clearing.
Kneeling silent in the forest
on the mountain dawn is breaking
partridge hops, cocks his head
chipmunks scurry, fall is coming
Dark eyes open, clear untroubled
gaze intently in the water
searching, seeking, answers needed
breezes soft the water ripples.
Further still she leans forward
dark hair frames her quiet face
gentle hands smooth the water
dawn's light dances, forms the image.
Gasp escapes, dark eyes widen
sits up quickly startles partridge
chipmunk scurries, nuts are scattered
looks again, the face is gone.
Softly weeping tears are falling
in the pool on the mountain
face is raised greets father sun
dawn is broken day is come.
The Krying Muse ~
Lament
I'll never be an Emily D.,
Achieve Jane Austen's fame.
They'll never use "invincible"
To modify my name.
But if, perhaps, my poetry
Gives one a glimpse of Thee,
Then with a smile
I'll bear the trial
Of mediocrity.
Janice Freeman ~
Sleep Walker
In the stealth of night
when you were wandering the dark halls dreaming
I stole glimpses of you for my sketchbook
Later
in my solitude
I wrote several erotic poems
and painted many images of your
rapt roaming with bare feet
and flowing nightgown partly revealing
How you looked ghost like
in the shadows and dim light
from the street lamp outside
as if it had been a dream
Of how I wished you had been dreaming of
coming to me
to make love and passion
pale descriptions of reality
Or that I had wished the night to go on
forever like a dream highway
Dancing Bear ~
You?
And does your heart go
sort of
BOOM!
when I walk into the room?
And do your knees go,
you know,
weak,
when you see me in the street?
And do your spirits lift
so high
when I pass you by?
And do you lose track
of time,
when you see my bright eyes shine?
And do you feel you have
a fever?
No.
Me neither.
Shaun Allan ~
The Bully
Billy walked through the long dark corridor, nodding a greeting to
the people he liked and ignoring those who insulted him.
He came out of the corridor and hopped up a flight of stairs. Chris
was there. Chris stared at him with those grey eyes cutting Billy
making him uneasy.
Chris was fourteen, the same age as Billy. He was about five foot
six, also the same as Billy. But he was stronger and Billy knew this.
Chris murmured to his friends, "Look at the fat bastard." He said it
just loud enough so that Billy would hear it.
The remark stung Billy. He had not done anything to deserve such a
remark. He knew he was a bit fat but he had not done anything to
warrant such an attack. He kept walking and, just before he turned
the next corner he gave a two-finger salute. He heard the sound of
hurried footsteps and looked, frantically, for a place to hide.
Chris turned the corner and saw nobody but her figured that Billy
could not have made it to the end of the corridor. "I'm going to get
you, you fat bitch!" he yelled.
Billy could see his antagonist and for a single moment he wanted
to slam the door that separated them into Chris's face. But he knew
it would only worsen his situation.
They don't insult me behind my back so that I don't know, he
thought to himself. Bastards!
Chris was gone and the corridor was empty. Billy stepped into the
corridor, peered in both directions and crept away in the opposite
direction from Chris's departure.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully- a few names and kicks in the shins.
Billy was at home watching his mother cutting a loaf of bread with
a sharp, serrated knife. He noticed how, some of the time, when the
shiny blade was withdrawn form the loaf the bread would catch and
tear. At the same moment, he was having a day-dream about what he
could do with a knife like that.
It was Billy's worst day. Thursday, P. E. day. The only day on
which he was afraid of going into school.
"Come on, dear," his mother beckoned.
Billy knew he should face his problems, although it may be
difficult. He got up, got dressed and went to school.
In P. E. he was playing badminton, ignoring the shuttlecocks that
were deliberately hit at him.
Then Chris thought it would be fun to hurl other objects at him. So
he grabbed whatever he could find- a basketball, a football, a
table-tennis bat and a badminton racquet - and threw them.
The badminton racquet hit his arm, then bounced off and
smacked him in the ear. It sent a jolt of pain through his head,
however he resisted the urge to cry. He did throw his racquet as
hard as he could back at Chris, who dodged it easily. The teacher saw it.
"What are you doing?" cried the teacher, angrily. "Come here!"
Billy walked over to the teacher.
"Why, exactly, did you throw that racquet at Chris?" requested the teacher.
"He threw one at me, sir," Billy replied.
"Chris, come here!" yelled the teacher.
"Yes, sir," he said.
"Did you throw a racquet at Billy?" asked the teacher.
"No, sir. I didn't do anything to Billy," replied Chris. He was
managing well to conceal the evil grin that he wore when undermining
authority. He walked back to his friends and started laughing.
"Billy. Detention. Tomorrow, one-thirty. My office," the teacher ordered.
"But..." Billy spluttered.
"No 'buts'. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Billy moaned.
Friday morning. Billy had decided what he was going to do.
He went to school.
Chris saw him and he could not resist the urge to come over and annoy him.
"Hey! Dick! Enjoy detention," Chris sniggered.
"Get lost," Billy moaned. He was still doubting whether he should
carry out his plan or not. So help me God, I'll do it, he threatened mentally.
"You're telling me to get lost. I might have to kill you for that,"
Chris threatened. He put a hand on Billy's shoulder and drew his
right hand back for the punch.
Billy suddenly, without a moment's hesitation, drew a ten-inch
knife from his jeans. He lunged forward. Chris could not move in
time. The knife sunk deep into Chris's shoulder.
He withdrew the knife and stabbed Chris again in the stomach.
Chris groaned as he fell backwards, landing on the floor with a thud.
His blood dripped from the knife like water from a melting icicle.
Billy enjoyed it. For that moment, he was having the best time of
his life. So he stabbed again and again, until the moaning stopped.
He stood over the body. Then it dawned on him.
He had killed a human.
He thought desperately about what he could as he watched the blood
drip from the knife. Then he took the knife, pressed it in and pulled
it across his wrist.
His last thought distressed him. 'Revenge is mine..."
Richard Browne ~
Rambling Rose
"Get me the Thingymagig please. Oh you know what I mean, the
thingymagig that's over thee by the whatchamacallit."
"You mean the pen by the radio Grandma?"
"Yes thats it. My mind ain't what it used to be you know. Remember what's his name... Oh. You know.... him what used to hang around with her what used to work in Tescos. They closed Tescos didn't they? Shame that. Oh that reminds me dear I neeed some of them... what they called..? How much are they nowadays? Humbugs ~ that's it ~ Humbugs. They are not so good since they put them in them plastic bags. They always tear the wrong way don't they?"
"Right now where did I put my purse?"
"Here it is, now is that it Grandma?"
"Yes I think so dear."
"I'll be off then".
Debbie Panks ~
Patient Solitude
Red Queen onto black King.
Red seven onto black eight, turn the card over.
Black two.
Deal three cards.
Red seven.
Nothing.
Deal three cards.
Black four.
Nothing.
The old man put the cards in his right and left hands together on the table and swept up the others from their separate piles into one. He picked them up, turning those that were facing the wrong way so he had a neat pile once more. He drained the last of his half bitter, replaced the empty glass on the beer mat, and began to shuffle the deck.
A large man paused beside the table, picked up the empty and replaced it with a full half pint. He picked up a few coins from the collection next to the beer mat, and walked off without a word. He knew the score by now, he had been manager of the 'Rat pub for long enough to know that old Albert hated to be disturbed whilst playing. Effectively, of course, that meant Albert (never Al or Bert) hated to be disturbed at all, seeing as all he did during the five hours each evening that he spent in here was drink half pints of bitter, one every hour and a half or so, and play Patience.
Occasionally, the manager, Paul Fisher according to the sign above the entrance, tried walking away without taking any money for the drinks; Albert was so much a part of the furniture that Paul felt a little guilty taking money all the time. He was never allowed, though. Albert would take hold of his arm and guide him back to the table. Without even looking up, he would pick up the money for the half bitter and hand it to Paul. At times the manager attempted to refuse the payment, but then Albert would look up, and Paul would see the sadness in the old man's eyes, and would take the money just to get away.
Paul hated looking into Albert's eyes. There was no cruelty, or hatred, or any nastiness in them. That was not what disturbed the large man. Rather, it was the desolation. Here was a man who had spent every evening sat at this table, quietly playing patience, for as long as Paul had been manager, and apparently a lot longer than that. Here was a man who never had any company, and hardly ever spoke apart from a nod goodnight when he left each night. Here was a man who had never won a single hand of the game he so religiously played. Not one. There was an emptiness inside this old man that Paul could feel whenever he looked into those eyes. He soon learned to just keep the drinks coming, and to keep taking the money.
Albert smiled briefly at the faded photograph of his wife that was set next to his beer mat. This was something he did before each game, as if for luck. The fact that he had never won even after all these years of playing, and waiting, did not bother him - he barely noticed the fact.
His hands shook ever so slightly as he began dealing once again. That and the tight, grey skin that was shrink-wrapped to the knuckles and fingers, were the only signs that these were an old man's hands. The movements were fluid and smooth, if a little shaky. The cards were dealt evenly across the polished table-top (this was about the only table in the pub that did not have someone professing their undying love, or hatred, for someone else; Paul kept it that way, but didn't have to try too hard, no-one else had sat at this table for years). Seven neat piles of face down cards, with the topmost face up, were laid out in unhurried strokes. Once this was done, and a cursory glance showed there were no immediate openings, Albert pushed three cards from his left hand over into his right, and began to play.
Again.
* * *
The rain lashed down in sheets, almost completely obscuring the road ahead. Chris Johnson cursed out loud again, adding to an almost endless stream of obscenities aimed at both the weather and every other road user in this arse-end-of-nowhere-dead-end-compost-heap. He had hated growing up here years ago, and, now that he was all grown up, and decidedly too good for this dump of a town, he could see why. God, in all his infinite wisdom, only knew why a salesman of Chris's stature had agreed, asked even, to come to this backwater.
He flicked his windscreen wiper control up another notch, and cursed again when he found it was already going full tilt, and may as well have not been going at all, what with this damn river pouring down his windcreen. Chris alternately squinted and opened his eyes wide in a vain effort to see past the torrent. He knew it was no use though. God, what a night to be stuck in this weather, in this town, in this clapped-out-bone-shaking-joke that some malicious idiot had thought would be a good laugh to assign to Mr. Johnson. The car, of course, was none of those things. It was a brand new BMW 850, which was, much to his associates dislike, pretty much justified in being assigned to the regional salesperson of the year for the past four years running. Driving a car that most people could buy a house for was no consolation though, not when the wiper blades may as well have been non-existent on just the wrong night. His wife would be at home, dressed just how she knew he liked, having cooked just what she knew he liked, waiting for him to arrive with his wedding anniversary present of a fortnight in Barbados. Except he wasn't going to turn up at all at this rate, and the travel agents had screwed up with the booking anyway, and instead of going to Barbados they were booked to spent a week in Benidorm, of all the flea-pits of the world! Jenyfer was really going to love him.
Well, tough. He was in just the right sort of mood to deal with her anger.
His heart jumped into his throat as the truck leapt out of oblivion, barely missing him, and giving him another excuse to stream curses at the world. He did, however, slow down a little, and decided to stop for a break at the next pub he passed. Christ, he'd only been going for about fifteen eternal minutes, and he needed a drink already.
A half-memory surfaced briefly of a pub with a stupid name somewhere along the road he was crawling along. He smiled for the first time that night as the brightly lit sign declaring the Desert Rat drizzled into view. Chris turned slowly into the car park and pulled up as close to the pub doors as he could get. He was surprised at the fairly large number of cars in attendance on such a lousy night. He managed another couple of curses as he realised the closest he could get would still mean his getting drenched before hitting shelter. Sod it, he thought, and drove right up to the entrance, parking so he could almost step directly from his car into the pub. He jumped the short distance to the doors slamming his car door while he was in mid-air. It was only when he was safely inside that he poked his hand out and activated the central locking.
Chris could have sworn he had been in this place before, when he used to live around here, but the decor, and even the arrangement of the bar, lounge and toilet doors rang no bells. He didn't bother dwelling on the subject, and hastened into the lounge.
Once at the bar, he shook off his coat and threw it over a stool at the bar. He didn't notice that it was dripping everywhere, and wouldn't have cared anyway. He ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his forehead free of water, and sat down himself. With a sigh he rummaged through his coat pockets for his mobile phone, working on an excuse to tell Jan. When he finally dragged it out, his shoulders slumped. He could not even curse anymore. The mobile was wet, and when he switched it on, a pale flicker was all that greeted him instead of the normally bright, luminous screen and buttons.
Jenyfer could wait. He had a more pressing engagement.
"'Scuse me," he called to the barman.
The barman walked slowly along the bar, casting an appraising look over Chris. Something Chris hated was appraising looks. Especially from some lard-ass in a poxy backstreet pub. If anyone should be appraising, it should be him. And he had. And he was not happy. Just let the barman open his mouth, thought Chris. I don't need this.
"Yes, sir?" asked Paul. His appraisal of Chris's mood had been pretty accurate. The man was pissed off. From the state of him, Paul was not surprised.
"Vodka, please. Make it a large one. A very large one."
While the barman was drawing the vodka, Chris worked out the price. He was in no mood for a conversation. He put the money on the bar, and nodded at it when the barman passed him his drink. Paul was well versed in the moods of customers. He took the money wordlessly and turned away.
Chris raised the glass to his lips, and threw the alcohol down his throat. He breathed in sharply as the warmth radiated through his tired body. He slammed the glass down on the bar, and put another pile of change next to it. He nodded to the barman, who took the hint and refilled the glass.
Chris disposed of this the same way he had the first. Again the glass was planted on the bar, and again it was refilled. Chris was beginning to calm down, more thanks to the drink than anything, and thought he might even start a conversation with the barman. He turned around to survey the room, not that he anticipated having much to look at.
His gaze fell on Albert. The old man was slowly and carefully gathering up his cards and dealing them out. Chris glanced at the barman, and then pushed himself away from the bar, ignoring Paul's brief shake of the head.
He walked over to the old man's table. Old grandads, sipping bitter and playing cards - badly from what Chris could see.
Typical.
He looked down at the game in hand. What was this old duffer doing? He was missing loads!
"Black four on red five," Chris said, pointing.
Albert looked up slowly, and Chris immediately recognised what Paul already knew. He backed off. Returning to the bar, he swiftly downed his vodka, signalling, as he did so, for Paul to get him another.
"What's his problem?" Chris wanted to know, noticing that the old man had gone back to his card playing.
"No problem," Paul answered, taking Chris's offered money. He didn't like this bloke. A bit of money and a lot of attitude. The guy obviously did well, his arrogance being mistaken for confidence. "He's waiting for someone. He doesn't mind losing. He'll win one day. He just doesn't like to be bothered, that's all. Never has."
Chris noticed the tone in Paul's voice. And the same to you. "Only trying to help," he muttered. He threw back the vodka, banged the glass down, and stood up. The booze was having an effect on him now. He quite liked it. Fuzzy.
His bladder urged him on, so he walked, mostly straight, to the entrance. Once through, he stood swaying a moment while he figured out the door he should go through. He got it wrong and ended up back in the lounge, looking down at Albert's cards. He swore, almost to himself, and turned back through the door, catching sight, briefly, of the picture of Albert's wife. Something in the recesses of his alcohol dulled mind called out to him, but his bladder called louder. He found the right door.
Once relieved, Chris leaned on the basin, taking deep breaths in an effort to clear his head. A couple of vodkas don't have this effect. It's probably the bloody 'flu, or something, 'cos of this shitty weather. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. God, what a mess. He couldn't go home to Jenyfer looking like this. Thoughts of his wife prompted another urging from the back of his mind. Some, long buried, memory was trying to surface. Something to do with that old bloke's photo...
Chris couldn't be bothered to dwell on it. Who cares, anyway. He stood up, taking a long, deep breath through his nose. He let it out slowly through his mouth. Woah. He blinked, suddenly dizzy. Whatever it was that was struggling to be heard in his head took advantage of the drop in his defences. He looked into the mirror again and, abruptly, he knew. He'd seen that woman before somewhere. Where was it...?
Oh, God.
He doubled up over the sink, and vomited as images assaulted his senses. There was another reason he never drove when drinking. He remembered now. He'd tried to forget. He had forgotten, had buried the experience deep down. It had clawed its way out now, though. It was back, and with a vengeance.
He vomited again as he saw the car he'd stolen as a young teenager; at the torrential downpour that had obscured his sight, much like tonight; at the lorry that had come from nowhere, causing him to swerve off the road; and at the woman who had not even seen him, had not even had a chance to move before...
He retched, his stomach empty as he remembered rushing to her, seeing her neck twisted at a strange angle, seeing the blood trickling from her nose and her ears and, oh, God, from her eyes.
But she was still breathing!
Maybe she'd be OK.
He gasped as he saw himself standing up, oblivious to the rain, and then running, running as if he'd the devil on his heels.
He'd forgotten it all. But now, that photograph. That woman. He'd killed that old man's wife, so many years ago. And the old man had been waiting for her all this time. He had to get out of here. He quickly splashed water on his face, and cupped his hands under the tap to swill his mouth out, spitting the water into the sink.
There was a commotion in the foyer, people running in and out of the lounge, someone pushing his car out of the way outside. He was about to yell at them when he saw the flashing blue light coming towards the doors. The ambulance stopped, and a gurney was dragged inside by a pair of rainsoaked paramedics. They pushed past him into the lounge, returning almost seconds later with Albert strapped to the gurney, an oxygen mask on his face.
His head whirled. He had to get out. He staggered into the lounge to retrieve his coat and phone. The room was empty, even the barman had gone outside. Chris could not help himself looking at the photograph of Albert's wife, but another sight stopped him in his tracks.
On the table next to the photo were four neat piles of cards, Kings uppermost. Albert had won a hand. His last hand.
Chris could feel his throat tightening again, and backed out of the lounge, any thoughts of getting his coat gone. His eyes remained locked on the cards until the door closing in front of him snapped him back to his senses. He turned and ran out of the pub, pushing past the crowd of gathered around the ambulance and throwing himself into his car.
His hands shaking, he managed to push the key into the ignition and turn it. The engine sprang into life, and the car lurched forward as he stamped on the accelerator. He swerved out of the car park and onto the main road.
He just barely missed the truck as it leaped out of the darkness, but he hit the wall and the windscreen and the pavement with full force.
In the ambulance, Albert's wife smiled down at her husband. He smiled back, and then closed his eyes, and the monitor attached to his chest flatlined.
Leslie Alberts ~
Watery Grave ~ Part 3
I angle the ship deftly around a difficult curve and frown,
worriedly. "Perhaps it's a collapsed mine," I muse.
"No. The subsidence levels reached a peak a while back -
almost exactly half-way between the two nearest mineshafts.
Now the levels are dropping."
"Where was the peak?"
"Halfway between North Point and current co-ordinates.
Shall we check it out?"
"Yes. We better had."
I flip the ship over onto its back and barrel roll, tumble-
turning in the narrow gully. Samuel follows, and we retrace
our steps, like silver rayfish in the sunless world.
We amble along at less that thirty knots, so as not to miss
anything. Finally, we come to a point where the subsidence
levels peak dramatically. I switch off the ramjet and let the
Trident hover; Samuel follows suit.
"Now what?"
I shrug, unseen by my companion. "I don't know. Have
you recorded a seismo?"
"Yes. Nothing special. Pressure levels, fine... Nothing
special, except for the subsidence."
"Right. I'll run a rock sample."
The radio fizzes. "No good. We need a control."
"Then get one. Run a couple of miles down South and
fetch some rocks. I'll run some checks up here."
Samuel departs. I wheel my ship and face the rock wall,
slowly accelerating the ramjet until I feel close enough to
touch the bulging wall of stone. I kill the lights, realigning
my gaze to the IR monitor, thus avoiding the stark, black
shadows of torchlight. The wall is bare. The odd fish swims
by, oblivious of my presence.
I slip my hands into a pair of articulated steel gloves,
mounted on twin joysticks, and activate the robotic arms.
Two insectile extremities slide noiselessly out into the water
before me, like the arms of a groping automaton. I reach
forward with my right; the corresponding arm slides forward
in flawless synchronisation. Opening my fingers, I make a
claw and thrust the steel spikes into the wall of rock. I try to
get a purchase, but the joystick locks and the arms scrape
ineffectually at the solid stone. The fingers were not
designed to break.
I sigh, and slip my right arm out of the glove. I flip up the
hinged cap on the T-bar joystick; underneath is a bright red
button. Without bothering to aim, I fire, sending a red,
searing arc of flame out from beneath my ship. The laser
strikes thrice with surgical precision, and the loam chips and
swirls around me. Deftly, I catch a stone sliver with my left
hand, retracting the robotic arm back inside the ship for
analysis.
The monitor buzzes, and then flashes up with the
following readout:
Acid quota high to very high
Layers several crystals ---PLEASE WAIT COUNTING---
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . zero
Accessing databanks. . . .calcium carbonate COMPACT
LIMESTONE analysis complete
I frown, and my gaze wanders once more to the IR
monitor, with the monochrome picture of the rockface
flickering erratically. Where the laser struck, a dark, irregular
patch has been left. Puzzled, I switch on the lights and
examine the wall in full.
There is a hole.
I am contemplating the matter when Samuel returns. He
hails me over the com system; Brothers in Arms is playing
loudly in the background, and I can hear him humming
merrily to the slow melody.
"Hello, Sol? I've finished my analysis, nothing special. Just
the usual - igneous rock, mostly granite. What does yours
say?"
I lean over the intercom and lick my dry lips thoroughly.
"Limestone," I reply. "Thin limestone..." I frown,
thoughtfully. "There's a hollow bubble of the stuff - it's far
too soft to be supporting any granite. Look - I've made a
hole."
Samuel's lights swivel and rest on the wall before me.
"Yup," he says. "You made a hole, alright. What now?"
"Well... I suggest we carefully drill away a section of the
wall, piece by piece, and see what's behind it. After all, this
is the centre of the activity. Perhaps some loose rock has
fallen, leaving the rest to shift... We'll have to be very..."
Samuel's Trident flies into my line of sight like a bat out of
hell. He banks, angling himself until he is head-on with the
wall, and then hits the ramjet on full, propelling the ship at a
speed of forty knots towards the sheer rockface. The
limestone shatters on impact, shards of chalk falling away
and breaking into clouds of dust.
"Careful," I finish, lamely.
Samuel continues, unhindered by the collision, and halts in
the newly - created tunnel. Now that the limestone has fallen
away, I can see that the hole stretches some way into the
stone. Samuel hovers and tumble-turns, the twin beams of
his torchlight blinding me momentarily.
"Good god, Samuel, what the hell was that?"
The radio crackles, and an eel darts past. "What do you
reckon it is, Sol?" asks Samuel, ignoring the question.
Suddenly, the inside of my cockpit feels very hot, and my
brow is laden with warm sweat. "I haven't got the first idea,"
I mutter. "But the ground's shifting at incredible speeds -
only two zeros after the point. You'd best proceed; I'll follow
you."
I follow him into the tunnel, a wave of claustrophobia
washing over me as the stony walls roll on by. I feel hot;
fumbling around in the cockpit, I throw off my heavy top,
exposing my moist, bare chest. The monotonous hum of the
oxygen pump splutters and stops for a split second, filling
me for a moment with the harrowing suspicion that it has
jammed. I exhale heavily, my breath condensing on the glass
bubble above me.
As the tunnel begins to descend, I suddenly notice that the
corners have squared off. Looking at the illuminated walls, I
realise that they have been chiselled. A tingle of horror
spreads up my spine as I realise that these twisting, turning
tunnels have been made by man.
Stuart Levin ~