Stouffville, Ontario Canada (647) 962-1997 gwstudios@rogers.com M-F 8:30am - 2:30pm & 8:00pm - 11:00pm

Tag: humour

“What is it you said you guys do again?”…

greatwallstudios1 Comment on “What is it you said you guys do again?”…

The sector HR director asks cheerfully. Ms. Catherine Taylor is known as a straight shooter, not much for small talk either. She is extraordinarily busy, so her questions tend to be thoughtful, penetrating and to the point. Gathered around her, in the media screening suite are a group of beautiful men and women, all of them look to be in their mid twenties. An immaculately kept blonde woman dressed in a tailored emerald green jumpsuit speaks up for the group. “We are the local chapter of sex workers. Yes, that’s right prostitutes.” Her matter of fact admission shows just how resilient and well looked after the group is. “I see… so I understand we’re here to vet a news piece about your work, lives and the conditions you work in?” The question is open ended, and not a hint of judgment to be found. Director Taylor is a well educated woman, she knows the value of morale among her work force. From the people at sanitation, food service, medical and the largest group under her purview, the mechanics. “Well, yes and no. We opted for an informative, but light hearted approach. We all chose this lifestyle. We feel we are making a difference. All of us gathered here work with… how to say this… um… challenging individuals that your average man or woman wouldn’t be equipped to service safely.” Stated matter of factly, with both dignity and pride. Cathy leans forward in her couch. “Challenging? How so? Are these violent people, are you telling me your safety, health and well being are being impinged upon!?” You can see a blood vessel starting to bulge out on her forehead. There is nothing HR director Taylor hates more than subordinates being taken advantage of by those with power or physical advantage. The young woman flushes a bright pink at the cheeks and chest. “Oh, no no no. Nothing of the sort. We have expert level care, both physically and our mental well being. We have access to psychological therapy, and are able to option our extensive vacation leave any time. No, we deal with physiological deformities.” She is obviously uncomfortable discussing her patients/clientele. A brute of a man across the table dressed in a forest green jump suit jumps in when he sees the young woman balk at the question. “Um… well, Sadie and I…” the gorgeous blonde girl gives a small wave. “We share our client load… excuse the pun.” A broad, yet sheepish grin from both. They lock eyes and share a charming chuckle. “Our clients share a similar physical attribute.” Out from the back of the room, an ebony god chiseled out of obsidian chimes in. “Horse cocks. Those dudes all have monster cocks. Like twenty inches, down passed the knees, behemoths. Circumference like that coffee mug your clutching!” The room erupts in a fit of laughter. With a shocked chirp HR director Taylor chokes on her drink, dribbling a mouthful down the front of her burgundy suit. Gareth, the handsome man continues his story, unfazed by the outburst. “Yeah… that’s true. I know most people think they work hard, but we wanted to show the whole station that though we only work three hours a day, it really is work.” With shock Cathy blurts out. “My god. You have penetrative sex three hours a day with gentleman with a horse cock! Dear god.” Leaping from her chair the fear on her face is visible, tension is palpable within the small room. “Oh no. Sorry if we gave you that impression. No, we include ninety minutes of stretching. Whether that is vaginal or anal. You don’t go in cold, not with our clientele. We make sure no one is under the effects of antidepressants, so the actual sex portion, lasts about forty minutes. We chat, cuddle and hang out. Then we have clean up, massage orifices back to health and physical therapy to avoid tears, fissures or chafing. All in all, about three hours. Lovely gentleman, very aware of their… affliction.” With a grimace that she can’t quite hide, HR director Taylor settles back into her chair, as they dim the lights and roll the tape. The Company jingle plays, as their mining and exploration symbols flash on screen. Fade in from black, with the same group gathered in a small studio on screen seated in two rows, like a reality tv series reunion show.

After the credits have rolled, and all the workers have cleared the room HR director Taylor turns to her junior director and says. “That bit about the twin sisters, one whose a sex worker who gets all the clients that are looking to fuck her brilliant scientist sister who is asexual. I want to know more about that. Something there seems off. I need to know about the asexual sister, what she’s working on now that she’s transferred over to the Venus station. Why she left, under what circumstances, that sort of thing.” The junior director has his face buried in his notes. “Yes, Ms. Taylor. I’ll talk to the boys down in Sanitation and the Janitorial union guys, see what I can learn. I’ll report back to you in twenty four hours. Do you need a escort to tonights launch of Margot’s Fever?” His biometrics are pinging with oncoming calls and alerts for his other duties aboard the Torus station. “No, that won’t be necessary Todd. I’m taking some time to myself this evening. I’ll catch the live cast from the comfort of my suite.” Turning to leave the room, I can see a small face appear on Todd’s wrist communicator. The Sanitation union rep is telling him how to go about getting to the sub basements where they are located.

“Enjoy the trip down below. Be safe. Keep your eyes and ears open while you’re down there. And for fuck’s sake, don’t touch anything.” The heavy doors close behind the director, leaving Todd the junior director alone in the dark media screening room.

 

PART XII

“Do you have any idea how much these treatments are going to run The Company!”…

greatwallstudios1 Comment on “Do you have any idea how much these treatments are going to run The Company!”…

Screams a ruffled angry man in a shabby orange jumpsuit. “Yes, I have some idea of the cost Gerald.” My tone is neutral, even if my voice comes across as laconic. “Well, why the fuck do you need it then. Do you know what this does to the bottom line?” He’s just out of frame of the view screen, probably pouring himself a stiff drink. Why do they all do that. Any sign of an obstacle and they turn into booze hounds. Pathetic. Can’t say that aloud, not yet. For now I have to keep Gerald placated. “Have you reviewed my sector’s safety numbers, our billable hours, success rate with the tradeschool and university. We have so many award winning roboticists we’ve jumped ahead in ships ai service bots by about two hundred years. Our service records are impeccable. But to maintain all of this i have to work twenty hours a day, every single day.” Walking around the mechanics boardroom with the massive windows that overlook the dock yards to emphasize my point. My conference table camera tracks my movements throughout the room. It’ll even zoom in for punctuation when i trigger the action on my palm control.”Ms. Taylor, we are all well aware of your exemplary achievements with your posting. The rich burgundy suit you favour makes a striking impression on all board members.” How humbling to hear Herald… grovel. “Ok, ok, the board of directors will approve the request for the continuation of the rejuvenation treatments. Provided the shop floor continues to out perform all other Company ship building facilities. Oh, one other minor thing. I know you have a lot on your plate right now…” oh shit, I can hear the trepidation in his voice, I need to cut the feed… cut the feed, cut the feed damn it. I can’t find the correct button on my palm control. Shutter speeds are fluttering, there’s an extreme zoom. “…but, we’re having a real tough time mediating the battle between the Janitorial union and the sanitation guys again. This is the sixth time they’ve butted heads over their overlap, and the infighting and politics is getting out of hand. We only just got them to settle on purple uniforms for the Janitors, and the Sani’ guys were are too happy to have – brown. Of course. Fucking children, the lot of them. I’ll have my under secretary depose you of what road block we are currently dealing with.” And in the blink of an eye, two more full departments have been dumped in my gods be damned lap. Going to have to add two new colour bands to my jumpsuit sleeves. And I thought the mechanics were a prickly bunch to deal with. Keeping the generalists, welders, hardware techs, programmers, fabricators and cnc guys all aligned was no small task. Add to that the training, and educational staff, and an onslaught of apprentices. Jesus, even the HR teams that run under my banner can be pedantic as fuck. Not the group to play scrabble with. Nerds. A loud ping sounds off, the paperwork for my next treatment has come through. Good old Gerald, kicked that order up the chain as fast as he could. Must mean this Janitor v. Sanitation hubbub is a real shit show. With a soft woosh the boardroom door opens onto a wide, well light corridor, replete with charming wall sconces, aromatic flowers in planters and various autonomous cleaning bots scrubbing each surface imaginable. Heading to the large corporate power lift, the attendant calls it down from storage, and operates the lift to the corresponding floor. Our lifts are pretty great they can travel laterally through the station too, so I can jump over the required sectors to the elite med bay.

“Ok Cathy, how do you feel now?” The med tech dressed in blue coveralls with a stethoscope hung loosely from her neck is standing at the foot of the medical pod. I feel like I was dunked in a clear gel soup for an hour, but in actuality it was about forty five minutes. Time is money. No reason to pussy foot around. Get us up and at ’em. “Typically I’m referred to as Senior Director Taylor, ma’am, or Ms. Taylor… Jennifer, you know that.” Chuckling to herself the medical technician turns away and says. “Yes, very well Cathy, you’re cleared to go back to your duties. We’ll see you again soon, no doubt.” With a flurry of papers rustling on the medical chart the doctor exits the room housing the med pod. Stepping out of it requires a slight hop. The room is cool, bordering on cold. Pulling on my soft body sock, and all of its appropriate catheters and safety seals is a tedious and slow going job. Then sealing myself inside the more rigid and rigorous outer shell. The rich burgundy really pops in the light down here. These earth like sun bulbs are amazing. Tying my wet hair into a tight ponytail it’s time to head back to my office block and get a hold of that under secretary. What was his name again? Don’t recall Gerald mentioning anyone specifically by name. Typical. No respect for their staff. It’s all transactional with these people. Probably why they all die rich and alone, of a heart attack, surrounded by things and stuff. Leaving no loved ones behind, or as is the case with Gerald, just a few wealthy disaffected kids and an alienated trophy spouse.

“For the last time guys, keep your voices down. Screaming isn’t going to help resolve this matter.” The union bosses for both the Janitorial guys and the Sanitation crews are red faced, sweaty and running dry at the mouth from their heated arguments. “Listen here fellas. I’ve had to spend the last three days combing forty thousand pages of documentation with my junior staff and I can’t find any record of you guys having divided up your tasks or sop’s. Now that you’ve come under the umbrella of The Company, you no longer retain the rights to dictate what, where, when or how, or even who gets to perform what tasks. You signed away those rights for those awesome colour coded uniforms and our involvement in your organization. No. No, you keep your mouths shut. I get that you’ve always had your own say, and had control. But those shifts are gone. Do I have your undivided attention now.” The room is silent, all bodies in the room, or seated at the conference table are stock still. “Now, as a matter of union dues, those all come to us to disburse. Schedules, vacation, benefits, workload, day to day activities will now be dictated to you. We OWN you now. So, first order of business. You will provide us with, in exacting detail, every single job description contained in your organization, their task requirements, educational needs, training parameters, pay structure, organizational structure, and any issues you encounter, no matter how small, that disrupts your ability to perform your duties. Should we find overlap, we’ll convene a task force, from both branches and we’ll sort it out as we come to it. That is all.” The shocked faces are quiet, dumbfounded by the enormity of what they had entered into. Stand up as one, and burst out into fits of laughter. Two men, twin brothers step around the far side of the board room table, putting themselves between me and the door. “Ms. Taylor, we have all that completed all ready. You see, we’re a tad sneaky. We listen to every conversation aboard this station. We came to suspect that you were the one to lead us. Our fights are imaginary. We simply made them up, to tire out the other directors, so they’d dump us on you. They don’t care. Those silly fucks always want to bury their noses in their own business and could care less about us janitors, and sanitation guys. But you!” They say it in unison, like they share one joint brain. It’s quite alarming to hear this speech in stereo. “You know your people. You have a reputation for getting shit done. Finding the needed resources, then getting. The. Fuck. Out. The. Way!” Punctuated by finger guns, claps and stomping feet from the rest of the room. Oh these guys are good. They played all the senior staff like fiddles with vacuous time sucking squabbles. “Well, gents I’m glad to be of service. But that trick only works once. Now if you’ll excuse me, we are about to launch the largest ever starship, Margot’s Fever, and I have a live cast to catch from my quarters. You have my direct line.” I can hear music playing, as the gathered team starts to pop bottles and dance in celebration. I leave feeling both relieved and shocked. How did they fool so many members of the board of directors. What did they mean about listening to every conversation. That tid bit might come in handy.

Down in the bowels of the station, the sanitation crews are hard at work, fixing, replacing, updating the hardware to all of the waste recyclers.  Although the brown uniforms were a joke, the brave men and women who work with medical and human waste are a tight knit bunch. The joke is that once you go brown, you swirl down and never get seen again. People who don’t work with feces just don’t get their particular brand of humor. The accommodations down here are vastly superior to anywhere else on board the station. Even the upper echelon don’t have rooms like these. No one bothers to check the specs when you deal with what’s flushed down the shitter.

 

PART XI

Pulling up the lane way to the massive Company induction office…

greatwallstudios1 Comment on Pulling up the lane way to the massive Company induction office…

I am struck by the sheer size of the building. It’s an enormous rectangle of grey concrete, flat roofed, dotted with a plethora of long thin windows, set back in the wall likely used as gun embankments during times of war and civil unrest. The building is the only thing around for miles. As the launch pad is only three kilometers from here, the blow back from lift off has kept much of the vegetation at bay. Only the most sheltered portion directly in front of the building has any grass or vegetation. The air out here is dry, the remnants of the Texas afternoon heat is coming up off the sand, and rich black asphalt parking lot in dizzying waves, even at this late hour. The view of the front doors is obscured by waves of heat. From the taxi drop off and loading zone it is about a six hundred meter walk. The pavement is lined with hearty shrubs and low hanging pecan trees. There are yellowy pot lights shining up through the scrub in the planters, illuminating all manner of gnats, flies, moths and mosquitoes. The air is abuzz with the sound of wildlife. In the distance, through the heavy opaque steel doors, a muffled murmur can be heard. There are several hundred freshmen recruits gathering for our induction process to the university aboard the Torus. Earth’s largest geosynchronous space station. By all accounts, it’s absolutely enormous, but ugly as all get out. Very utilitarian in design. From all of our documentation provided to us by The Company during the application process, it was once a glorified shipyard, a dry dock for capsule repairs. What was just a huge working platform has since morphed into the best university, and entertainment hub in the solar system. The only comparables are the floating station above Venus, known only for science research into energy and propulsion systems. But it is tiny by comparison. I myself am slated to attend the robotics program at the university. I garnered a full ride scholarship for excellence in translating theory into fabricated proof of concept. I was told by my mother that I get my smarts from her side of the family. My uncle was once blown up by separatists in a plot to destroy the Torus. Ultimately it failed, but he got a glorious set of bionic arms out of the deal. My scholarship is named after his combo drill appendage that revolutionized The Company’s mining operations. I guess I’m what you’d call a legacy.

Walking up to the immense steel double doors, we are met by teams of heavily armed guards, dressed in black uniforms. The line to get through the door is about one hundred people deep. The late evening air is insufferably oppressive. Littered among the crowds inside the main reception hall are men and women with tight buns, and razor sharp hair cuts, decked out in orange jumpsuits. According to the many hours of simulations we had to run, over the last six months, those orange suited folks are among the board of directors. Very senior people. The thought of mingling with the upper echelon of The Company gives me tingles. We have been run through any number of physical and psychological testing to make sure we can handle not only the trip off the planet, but our extended stay in zero gravity. All the latest talk show vids off of Torus station mentioned just how excitingly thorough the induction process is. We had to read so many official company reports about why we have to undergo a purge to make weight for the launch. It all sounds so clinical, so removed. It’s very difficult to get a sense of what it will ultimately be like. I’m so excited. Standing in the center of the hub bub, I notice the line has moved. Finally, it’s my turn to scan my biometrics and pass through the last of the health screening. Walking through the doors, you can see how spartan the space is. The room is cavernous, with beige painted cinder block walls, a few posters and banners hung tastefully along the far wall. Oddly there are no windows inside the grand receiving hall. Before we can get too far in, there are illuminated signs hanging from the ceiling, and red clad technicians directing us to take our bags to the porters station. Our items will travel up to Torus station separately. Did not know that. That wasn’t covered in any of the provided documentation. The queue moves quickly here. In a few moments I’m at the kiosk. A tall, slender woman tells me to scan my matching baggage tags and my biometric markers and to head straight into the hall. I both see and hear my duffle bag run along the raised conveyor belt that popped up from the tile floor and disappear behind a wall with a dull thud. Inside the great hall nearly all three hundred members of our cohort are gathered tightly in a crowd. The heat in here isn’t much cooler than what is outside. Now I wish I hadn’t worn all these new clothes. I layered up in case the place had ac blasting. Taking off my dress shirt, I let my fabulous blue hair out of its tight weave. Fanning my ponytail to let some air reach my hot and sweaty neck. A commotion stirs up near the center of the crowd. A petite woman, of Asian heritage can be seen raising her arms to garner attention. Around her throat is a sub vocal mic, guess she runs this show, and doesn’t like to shout.

The crowd stops and stands at attention. The honourable Ms. Kim opens her hands wide and leads into her speech. “Good evening everyone, and welcome to orientation!” Madness ensues.

 

PART IX

“Yo, Daryl, you’ve been summoned.”

greatwallstudios1 Comment on “Yo, Daryl, you’ve been summoned.”

Says the giant of a Martian born man who works on smaller single pilot vessels in our dry dock section of the torus. “Don’t gimme that look man, they sent word down from above, the HR director herself wants a meet and greet with the illustrious Daryl “the minotaur” Bradley. She asked for you, by name, so go upstairs, and see what the fuck is going on.” The Martian is a seven foot tall Hulk of a man, by the name of Barry Ludens, curt but a great shop foreman with a dry wit. A joke like this wouldn’t even occur to him. People in the lounge wince when they hear Daryl’s nickname said aloud, and to his face. People learn early on not to mention the moded red mechanics coveralls he wears with the ultra wide neck. Daryl is nestled into a crash couch winding down after a couple of shifts off, coping with the tragic death of his and his brother’s last great apprentice Andy. His brother Doug is seated beside him, dinner plate in his lap, mouth full of diced steak. “Dougie, we been here, what… like twenty seven years now right? You ever, even once heard about a meet and greet with one of the fucking board of directors?” He is slowly climbing out of the industrial crash couch, groaning under the strain of his considerable bulk, and the pressure on his not so young knees. Even in low gravity, age, and stress catch up with the best of us. “No D, I ain’t never heard of that before. You think we missed something on The Last Great Venture and some one else, or a whole crew died due to negligence? Maybe I should come too, you know, moral support or show our work order documentation. We certified that shit three times over, I know it!” Doug looks agitated, word from upstairs never comes down here to our cramped crew quarters without passing through ten miles of interconnected HR flunkies asses and mouths. A human centipede of middle management tweaks to sop directives. Daryl standing half in, half out of the door to the crew lounge, staring intently at the martian foreman Barry. “How the fuck do I even get up there to see the big wig any how?” A look of sincere consternation upon his cracked and worn face. The last forty hours of mourning Andy’s passing has hit the whole sector hard, and our crew quarters the hardest. The room is littered with empty beer bulbs and smells like salty tears and sweat. “Not a problem D, if you head over to HR cubicle seven beside the bay doors, there will be a flunkie there to take you up. Let us know what it looks like from up there in their ivory tower eh?”. And with that last rejoinder, both men head out the door, down the gang plank and off to their separate duties.

Pling, pling chimes the door to the board room. With a soft woosh the double doors open, and I step passed the threshold and into an immaculately clean office space, full of crystal, real leather and an actual wooden table. Standing in front of the gigantic bay windows is the HR director, last name Taylor. That’s as much as they were willing to tell me on my trip up here. Over her shoulders the large expanse of our particular dry dock operation can be seen. From this vantage point, we look like ants in a tilt shifted photograph, the scale of the dock yards, the full enclosure, and all of those people busy at work is dizzying. Even our massive moving gantries where we park our mobile tool benches and chests look like children’s toys from up here. HR director Taylor is fitted out in a tasteful burgundy pant suit. It isn’t baggy, but nor is it too tightly fitted. Turning away from the view, she finally registers my presence. “Daryl Bradley, so glad you could make it. I’m so glad you could find the time to come and see me. I know you’ve recently been struct by tragedy.” Motioning towards the board room table and a couple of waiting seats, equipped with a view screen set to stand by and some bulbs of either pristine un recycled water or the purest vodka I’ve ever seen. “I didn’t realize I had the option to decline, Ms. Taylor.” Taking my seat opposite her, I marvel at how form fitting yet comfortable the chair is. Damn, this shit makes you want to fall asleep in it. However do these people stay awake during meetings. “Ah, yes… sorry. I do realize this is rather…undocumented. To say the least. Certainly. Listen, you are an intelligent man, so I’ll cut the shit. We here at The Company are terribly sad that your latest apprentice was murdered. You know, I oversee all three hundred of the dry docks on this station, and by far. By. Far. You have the best record on safety, and on people making their certs, and on satisfaction with your teams repairs. That mark eight was never supposed to be anywhere near here. But the crew asked for you by name. Specifically. Do you know how rare it is that a flight crew out of Neptune knew who you were, or even bothered to bypass the appropriate channels to get that experimental craft in to your work shop, under your watchful eye. The logistics and insider knowledge is astounding! no, no. Don’t worry I’m not accusing you of subterfuge. I’m paying you a compliment, that in the eighteen years I’ve been here, I have never once encountered. Now I know you’re a god damn fantastic mechanic, and you stay on deadlines, and keep your budget within reasonable margins. The best people working anywhere on this vessel came out from under your tutelage.” Ms. Taylor is now up on her feet, gesticulating wildly, as she walks the length of the room. All I can do is sit quietly, astounded by what I’m hearing. Though I sense a terrible and foreboding but, coming. “Daryl, do you mind if I call you that? Daryl, I have zero technical skills here. I understand very little of what you lot do here. I’m a people person. I get you the people and resources you need, then I get the fuck out of the way. You know, one of my fondest memories here was during the boom period of sixty three. I spend forty hours helping your crews find some compound w, and a much needed tube of preparation h. Now, I never did find those items, but you guys made me feel like I was a part of the team. Hell, the reason I got promoted so quickly onto the board of directors was because the two other junior directors I worked with got maimed or killed during their rotations on crews in other sections of the torus.” She has a wistful look upon her face at the fleeting memories. “We’ve got a serious problem here Daryl. That jag off that killed your brother’s apprentice, was moon lighting as a moon separatist. If word gets out, this whole station will erupt and blow out at the seams. For morales sake no one can know. The fewer the number of people who can recall that greasy fucks face, the better. That’s why, for your exemplary ability to teach, I’m promoting you off the shop floor and into a tenured teaching position within the machine shop. New personalized quarters, full meal plan, and no more death defying shifts crawling over ships. No need to thank me, the paperwork has gone through. It cleared the moment you came up the lift. Biometric scans for the win!” She looks genuinely pleased with herself. And with a flourish, I find myself back out in the hall, being lead down to the elevator banks. Wondering, what the fuck just happened here any how?

“Hey, there’s the big man. Back from the land of the lost I see. What’s up D, you look stunned? Oh shit, you getting a stint in rehab or something?” The question is left hanging in the air. Silence floats up to meet it. With a dull thud, Daryl flops onto an open couch. Running his hands over the well worn cracks and creases. Admiring the brilliant green light shining on the instrument panel. He turns around as though to talk to the whole room at once. “Doug has been promoted to lead all training in this sector of the docks. All dockets and work orders, change orders etc, now run through him. He’ll set the schedule from here on out. All foremen report directly to Doug. Notices have gone out all ready. I made a few notes, and some other long overdue promotions are going through, and a couple of raises. Those are my last acts before I leave for my new, university, full tenure position.” An audible gasp, as though each pair of lungs has drawn in all available oxygen in the cramped room. A heart beat passes, then two, then four.

Out on the gangway a loud commotion can be heard, emanating from the central crew quarters where the dock section leader bunks down. The sound of raucous cheers and corks popping can be heard. Music begins to blare over the loud speakers. All thoughts of misery evaporates in the tidal wave of cheers and shouts of good will. Notifications of raises and promotions begin to chime in on personal communicators.

 

 

PART VI

Well holy shit, I managed

greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment on Well holy shit, I managed

To write thirty one times in the month of January. I was not expecting that to happen, at all. I had high hopes for perhaps, seven to ten written pieces, but thirty one!?! No, no chance.

Work is starting to gather at the edges, so I won’t be going all out this month, but if some creative thoughts come to me, I do hope I’ll put pen to paper, as it were.

Thanks to those who read my micro short stories. My favourite three are intertwined and tell the same continued story. Big fan of space, isolation, revenge, and loneliness. In case my writing doesn’t tell you that, I’m telling you that now.

Hope to see you around here over the rest of 2020, and beyond. The flu was generally awful, I don’t reccomend it to anyone, if they can help it.

“You know what I love the most about being out here?…

greatwallstudios1 Comment on “You know what I love the most about being out here?…

The unobstructed view of the galaxy around us. Don’t you just love it!” She says, looking back at me, over her right shoulder. Her orange coveralls tied firmly around her waist. Her socks, and her shirt are a brilliant white, not a speck of dirt on them.

“Hmmm… no, all I keep thinking about is how isolated it is out here, and how far we are from anything, or anyone.” I say, staring down at the now ice cold bulb of mock coffee. It’s inky, black-brown packaging has golden markings all over it. I can’t read it. It was a gift from the Chinese agency, from last Christmas. It smells faintly of roasted cinnamon.

“Well, I really can’t get enough of this view, I mean what a breathtaking vista that is spread out before us.” She says it with that ear to ear grin she always has. It makes her dimples pop, her ice blue eyes twinkle in the brilliant starlight. Every day now, she comes to stand at the same view port, always looking forwards – to the stars. I’m hunched over a tiny table that converts to tuck back into the bulkhead. I stand up, and toss my bulb of frozen black coffee into an incinerator bin. This capsule, the Non Sequitur, was meant for ten, still feels cramped, even with just the four of us. A long cylinder of off white padded curved walls, illuminated in phosphorescent white light that has started to show some wear and tear. I will give them this, The Company does love to recycle. This is my seventh uneventful mission out here with one of the jury rigged crafts. “You know… we… I… hmmm, that first twenty nine week stretch out to Mars was tedious. I didn’t get any worth while readings, and there is no sign of the anomaly.” I am not happy. This line of work was supposed to be cutting edge. For fuck’s sake, it is space travel, and you promised us adventure, aliens, or at the very least a chance to bring about the singularity before the fall of mankind. We ventured out here in search of something, anything, anything at all that could be the key to unlocking our full potential as a species. And all I got was this lousy t-shirt. “I am not looking forward to eighty more weeks of this before we make it out to Pluto.” I have been glum for quite some time. I never could muster the same enthusiasm for these missions. Even with the pressure of the world on my shoulders. I just don’t care anymore.

“Same time tomorrow then darling.” She giggles as she says it. Every time with this same schtick. I’m annoyed, but I chuckle anyway. “Of course babe, say hello to our girls for me.” Jennifer vanishes in the dim light, leaving me all of the sparse, utilitarian room. The bright padding fades away to reveal the gathered filth and blood splatter of neglect. The fabric throughout the cabin is stained jet black in places, it reeks of smoke, and decay. The lights inside the observation pod have not come on in quite some time.

Outside the capsule, sparks continue to fall away from the craft’s hull like a giant rooster tail of cascading embers. A large black burn stretches across the jagged edge of what’s left of the crew quarters. There in the distance are vague forms of a woman and two children, suspended in their bed pods, both flash frozen, and boiled in the vacuum of space. The capsule is half a million miles off course, even though the engines and navigation survived the attack in one piece. Denial, much like the void of space, does not discriminate.

 

PART I

 

*****

And NOW for shits and giggles you can listen to me narrate Chapter One .

“What do you think happened here”

greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment on “What do you think happened here”

He says from over my shoulder. I am looking at the body in front of me, laid prone on the floor in a massive puddle of dark icor. “Well, hmmm… from the looks of it, I’d say he put two in the chest, and one in his head, painting that wall over there with bits of brains, skull fragments and hair.” I stand up slowly, have been having nasty head rushes as of late, when getting up from a crouch. “No, not that, my sandwich! Look there’s like one strip of bacon, and like half a leaf of lettuce. Jesus, don’t the rookies even look at this shit before they bring it to us.” He’s mad, turning this way and that, looking to get up in someones face, anyone within arms reach. “Oh come off it. Lunch was an hour ago, put that down and help me put together a reasonable theory of the case.” I spit the words out, realizing my lunch didn’t do much to satisfy my hunger today either. Irritated, we walk out the front door of this rat infested apartment, with its dangling light bulbs, and chipped paint on all the trim. The shared hall is choked with cops, and partially dressed angry neighbours. They’re all in a huff over the noise, and foot traffic coming and going at all hours. Really they’re just mad they can’t smoke crack or meth while so many cops are around. The floors creak under the additional strain of so many bodies. The temperature inside this hundred year old building is intense. Humidity of high summer has condensed on the walls, dribbling down to make foul smelling pools mixed with discarded cigarette ash, and garbage.

“Oh hey! Mind that puddle over there by that green door.” An elderly gentleman says, he has an indistinct, yet exotic look to him. Thinning dark hair, and a far too short kimono over what I could only describe as neon pink fishnets. “Huh? What’s that sir?”. I shout over the din of the gathered crowd. “Well, just steer clear of that shit. You know old lady Darcy’s a hoarder. That cloying smell of rot, vomit, and god knows what is her doing! Can’t even open her front door, it’s so chock full of shit in there.” He is becoming animated with all the young officers around, staring at him. “Some delivery dude came round here last week in fucking flip flops, had to go see a doctor because that puddle of sludge caused a pus ridden growth on both his feet. Fuck’in nasty. Banged on her door for like an hour, in a rage, he was. Poor kid. But what do I know…” My partner mimics the wanking motion with his left hand, the poor man’s soggy blt flopping about in his right. Mayo has collected on his lip, mixed in to his five o’clock shadow. He smells of cheap cologne, and sweat. We turn for the stairs, the black railing is peeling, it shows about twenty layers of caked on lead paint, and walk down the five flights to our squad car. The temperature outside isn’t any better, neither is the smell. Through a cracked window the radio cackles with an indecipherable muffled call. Followed by several clipped responses. In a rumpled tan suit, my partner shouts over the top of the car to me. I don’t hear it.

I can see the shadows growing longer…

greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment on I can see the shadows growing longer…

As the sun sets back behind the row of old mangled spruce trees. They really haven’t been the same since that last wind storm. It just blew through here like a god damned menace. Took half the shingles off the west side of the fucking barn. It was absolutely mental. You really couldn’t even hear yourself think, for the howl of the wind and the screach of twisting fensing. God, what an awful mess the last few weeks have been.

The last few moments of mottled sunlight pierce my eyes like Knives. “You know, mum really loves this view because of those trees. You remember how fucking mad she was when dad tried his hand at pruning them…”. My younger brother is standing beside me, dressed in a drab grey suit, clinging to his coffee cup, like it’s a life raft in a raging river. It’s cold, icy black waters threatening to swallow him whole. Pull him underneath, drag him down in the fast flowing current. I turn away from the view, it’s the same stretch of lawn I’d known for as long as I can remember. Turning my back to my brother, I cross the room, it’s somber dressing a reminder that things have changed. Nothing is the same, even as everything here is the same. Stopping at the door I say “It was a nice service. Food was a bit shit, for what they charged us… Bastards”. Twirling around, as though jolted out of his revere, my brother quips ” And what’s up with the vicar, what a thick fuck he is. Got her bloody name wrong, twice!”.

The sun has totally disappeared behind the stand of trees, the farm is that strange mix of dark but also still light out. The carpet smells a bit musty. There is cigarette smoke lingering on the walls, embedded in the paint, like so many other things left unsaid.

Very bad, no good, awful poetry : Series 3

greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment on Very bad, no good, awful poetry : Series 3

The best part about doing this series of early poetry written by myself as a teen, is that it has garnered exactly zero attention, and thus has gained no traction online, so while I have the catharsis of sharing it, I know deep down it will remain just as hidden to the outside world as it would had I left it untouched in my note book, on the shelf in my office, where it has sat since late 2009. Oh the unbridled joy of on line anonymity. Plus I’m a straight, white male, so not a whole lot of flack comes at me, unless I were to go out of my way to be a huge asshole. And I save that sort of thing for snide remarks at a movies expense while at the theater. So Boo.

If you’re just joining us now, or me, now, a few things you’ll come to understand. I’m not a professional writer, though at one point in my formative years I had ambitions for becoming a comic book creator / writer. I did give serious thought to Journalism school at Sheridan College, but did art instead. Probably money well spent given the caliber of the work if you look across the length and breadth of my old written pieces. Yikes. So feel free to curl up and have a good chuckle at my expense. From what I’m seeing as I revisit these old works, is they aren’t terribly offensive, except in that they are just awful. Low grade, faux depth, pretentious gobbledegook. Another three hot, steaming turds for your viewing delight.

1.) The sky at night Circa 1999

A lone ball of flame. Gas from an unknown region. Source of light in an uncaring life. A wonder. All ablaze, separated by nothingness and the cold distance between us. I can see you there, hovering, seemingly still, yet you twinkle. Do I dare dream on you tonight, what a wish, what wish, my wish, my right.

What I think is going on here, is like a version of wish upon a star, but kind of mopey and murky. I don’t think I had started to work nights yet, as a high schooler. I did work one semester for a place called Norkim Distributions in Brampton, a job I got because of a former girlfriends parents. I was lucky enough that they drove me to work and picked me up for the 90% of the time I worked there for a semester out of high school. I remember not being able to talk to anyone for most of the day, then as I got home, tired, I’d just natter away until I made my parents angry and they told me to just shut up. I get it now. I’m not a big fan on inane nattering. It was more as a way of dealing with being virtually silent the whole day, and feeling like I might explode if I didn’t just get a days worth of talking out once I got home. It definitely felt solitary. Doesn’t make the poetry any better though now does it. And they say that pain and sorrow create great art, no!, Talent, talent creates great art. Not merely being a morose mother fucker.

2.) Gripe : Twice daily Circa 1999

Whatever I mean, whatever I’ve said, it won’t matter much if I can’t get out of bed. Whoever I am, whomsoever I was, it doesn’t mean anything, and it didn’t mean much. Wherever I was, wherever I go, I won’t do anything, if I go it alone. With, without, what can I say.

Some of these I remember writing, even if vaguely. But this one eludes me, almost completely. I think I am really absorbing a lot of Temple of the Dog at this point, and trying to skirt the notion of completely ripping of Chris Cornell and the Mother Love Bone guys. It doesn’t flow together at all. The rhythm is off, and it sort of just fades away. Like I was trying to be prophetic, and found pathetic instead. On a second reading I guess, I wanted to be told I had something to say, but there really is no “there” there. It’s just pure, unadulterated cheese, “Fromage” for the old school Much Music Ed the Sock crowd.

3.) The fix is in Circa 2000

Sure, I still feel miserable three months down that road. A long hard journey through the vast unknown. But what’s to worry, because when I’m dead and gone, all those years from then, what will it matter, if I was a little mixed up inside my head. Time off, time alone, time apart. It’s all a healing process taken for a broken heart.

Whoo, that ones a bit of a floater. But I will say this, it follows a through line, and doesn’t get too heady. No major calling cards of a bloated sense of writing skill. Fairly layman in execution. No changing places with the man in the mirror. A break up poem if ever I wrote one. That’s it for this installment of terrible, awful poetry. If this does anything at all for you, feel free to post any of your own, miserable teen angst prone writing. Be free of your poor choice of prose! let the wicked underbelly of flatulent poetry free. Blast it into the ether! Fill the void with your own stinky mass of blind ambition.

More Of That Terrible Poetry : Series 2

greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment on More Of That Terrible Poetry : Series 2

Back faster than I initially imagined. I had a good talk with a friend, and we thought it was a good idea to revisit the terrible mush that we all produced as angsty teens. It’s all in good fun, and a hearty laugh at my own terrible ambitions to be a comic book creator/writer. Plus some of this tripe is absolute dog shit, so I need to loosen up and let the pretentious blatherings of my youth out into the great wide open for mockery. Can’t always post your best self. I also recollect that some of these were to be song lyrics, given how I have them laid out in my note book. But I’m not really able to replicate that here, so they instead read as longer form sentences, rather than curt sentence chunks. Anyway, on wards and upwards.

Grab a drink, and a warm blanket and get ready to retch:

1.) Thirst Circa 1995

I’m so thirsty that if i drink in your love I just might drown. Pulled down into the icy bleakness of your heart, so cold it fills up my head. Breathless voices, dance at the edge of my vision, like heavenly bodies glimpsed in the inky night sky. I’m just so thirsty. I want to drown in it. I want to breath it all in, cold choking my lungs. Pulled to the center of the void, where I’ll find you. I’m so thirsty, I’ll lay myself down. I want the darkness to expand into my everything, explore the corners of nothingness that I have never seen before. You’ve leached into my every pore, weighing me down, thirsting for my touch. To you, thirst is life, now I’m soaking wet and the waters all around me, pulling me down.

This one is a tad more cohesive, but still not exactly stellar. But I think I was trying to get over a breakup at this point, if my memory of the time is right, or maybe not. I thought the first big break up was around or some where near 1998. Not sure, could have been the medication I was on making me feel a bit, tweaked. On the bright side, it all seems to work as far as using drowning as a metaphor. Also that it feels like some one else’s personal darkness was having both an inward and outward effect on me. I will state, clearly, that in 1995 “Thirsty” did not mean horny, sexually affected, or have any kind of romantic connotations.

2.) You can’t call home? Circa 1995

Times a wasting, I’m heading home, late for dinner and I didn’t phone. Can’t call now, eleven’s long gone. I’ll say ciao and be home before long. Light of dawn is breaking, chills of the night, suns coming up as I run, temperature rising and I’m just too tired to fight. Last night was a blur, but now that I’m home I’m sure I’ll never go out again, not while I’m so immature.

A quick little ditty about how I usually ended up getting grounded in my teens. Staying out far too late, and not calling. But in my defense, we weren’t drinking, or smoking or doing drugs, and at that age I sure as hell wasn’t having sex. So being tardy (late) and not bothering to call home, was sort of my jam as a teen. Disrespectful, sure, but odds are we were playing our instruments, jamming and having Street fighter tournaments with Zero chance any girls were present, unless one friend or another had a younger sister.

I’m not sure why, but there is a significant time jump in my notes, as though I didn’t write anything down here between the tail end of 1994 and some time in 1998. Maybe the notebook got misplaced or packed away during a move or a bedroom remodel.

3.) When death had eyes Circa 1998

Stand back and watch the parade of clowns walk by. Teary eyed and wavy haired, marching single file in despair. For a candle has gone out and we’ve laid you down to rest. High above the clouds, the empty earth your bed, you will rest for eternity. When we call, if we call at all, I’ll name you – beautiful. You cannot turn back the hands of time, for they’ve been set, not to be touched – cold. The flame has flickered out, and we had to put you down to rest. With you, our hearts got buried in the ground. Sending up your soul, so high, drifting on the sound of our lonely weeping. A string of silly shoes, marching in single file, sad eyed clowns, calling out your name, songs for the void on their lips.

I can’t honestly tell if I wrote this after the passing of a family friend, of if I had just gotten into Temple of the Dog, and was trying to be deep, where I have no depth to speak of. At least by eighteen. Nothing much of anything had happened. I have such a bad memory, I can’t tell if a grand parent had died that year, or what. Certainly had a thing for death or dying. Makes all those “wish I were dead” memes you see on Imgur make far more sense, in context of having been a moody teen myself. Here I was thinking I was actually a pretty chipper fellow. I’ll have to ask some childhood friends what their honest opinion of me at the time was. I distinctly remember my favourite pass time being adding dirty lyrics to songs on the radio, as they came on, like an impromptu improve session with friends when driving anywhere.

Either way, this was series two of terrible, bad, awful poetry from my youth.