Everyone Is Writing A Book

2006-03-09T16:52:00.000-08:00

The Ping From Jesus

In the winter, dark and dreary
There I sat, eyes red and weary
Cutting, pasting, point and click
Coding something monstrous, sick

Over the whine of cooling fans
Came a beep from computer land
Mouse the mailtool, leave no turd
Some more junk from a chatty nerd?

Blossoming forth from cyberspace
Comes a note from a real place
I lose my grip and drift away
Reading ASCII of a special day

A tale of wonder, a song of songs
About a man from then and gone
Mailer’s address sends a clue
Access gateway, break on through . . .

Continued . . .

Copyright 1993

2006-03-09T16:43:00.000-08:00

The Old Man and the Sheets

The early sun burns over the horizon in the flawless azure sky, a sun already lurid molten iron. The day would be hot. The bush would be quiet, the flies torpid. I sense that today will be important. The season was that inderminant time between spring breakup and summer drought.

I will do laundry. A man does not need to be told when to do laundry . A man can sense when the time is right.

First, one must heat water. To heat water, one must burn wood, and to burn wood, one must kill trees. But killing trees is a righteous thing, a thing a man knows how to do. I had killed many trees last winter.

I start a goodly fire, a fire to match the lurid sun. Above the fire, I hang the iron cauldron that so recently held a hearty stew of venison and earthy vegetables, and tomatoes. But now the great pot holds water, clear as the flawless sky.

Secondly, one must have soap. I have soap. Last Christmas, a silver icon had spoken to me in the men’s room at the racetrack. Enraged, I had killed it, then captured its green life-blood in a whiskey bottle.

The water is heating, and I have found the soap. I strap on my side-arm. It is old-fashioned – a 1911 Colt .45 replica, fashioned from a piece of armor plate in the arms bazaar of Peshawar. Ali had given it to me that haunted night in Kabul. He had not wanted to give it to me, not when the Soviets were searching door-to-door. But Ali was a friend, and died like a friend, and then I had the gun. I am ready to take the dirty laundry.

Continued . . .

Copyright 1993

2006-03-08T21:35:00.000-08:00

A Tale of Two Strangers Shrugging
Excerpt One

Once upon a time there was an alien named Riley Vaentine Galt. Who is Riley Galt? Call me Galt -- Riley Galt, just don't call me late for dinner. Sorry, but when an entity floats around in space for several eons the witticisms get more rancid than the food, which is probably the only funny thing out here

I wasn't laughing, though. You see, food is my favourite dish. I've alway been a hungry alien and ever since I was jettisoned into this program I've eaten my dehydrated space goop with a fork. It's against regulations to eat with a fork, but my lips are as chapped as a cowboy's thighs from sucking on the nutrient pouches.

In fact it was my talent with the gobbling irons that landed me my current assignment. I was caught lounging in the mess hall with a forkful of space goop and mouth full of attitude when the call came up for volunteers. That fork poised in mid-scoop was mistaken for a loud "pick me!" I was deployed faster than a ten-ton Peterbilt screaming down a seven-percent grade.

Par for the course, the orders were vague and trite: to seek out and find the proverbial brave new world. Ha! Who were those three-fingered guys kidding? Sure, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was a dark and stormy night, it was a sunny and still day. All of the above, none of the above, I didn't care, I didn't know. I wasn't sure anymore. I wasn't sure of anything except the murky image of my feet propped on the console of my space capsule.

copyright 1993

2006-03-08T21:06:00.000-08:00

Magpie, black and white
Sweep your beak across fresh snow
Spill light into dark.

2006-02-17T16:07:00.000-08:00

World Without End
Excerpt 2

San Francisco, Early March

He couldn’t remember when he’d felt this good. He punched the accelerator and the Ferrari roared down the freeway through the smoggy twilight.

“I’m young, I’m free, and I’m goddam rich!” Ben Gardiner bellowed the words at the stars overhead. The slipstream tore the words out of his mouth and lost them in the vortex behind the Ferrari. Well, I’m not exactly rich, yet. But it’s looking . . . highly possible.

He saw his exit and eased up on the accelerator. He left the freeway behind and drove though the winding streets down toward the waterfront. The valley wore a soft purple haze pricked with thousands of lights, and the rank smell of diesel exhaust mingled with the scent of citrus blossoms and seaweed. The shabby industrial park he turned in at looked almost beautiful in the fading light. It wasn’t exactly Silicon Valley, however; his employees referred to it as Silicon Alley.

He slotted the Ferrari into its parking spot in front of the warehouse that was the home of Orchard Software Design. The building lacked architectural graces entirely, but it was solid, roomy, and cheap. He’d moved his fledgling company into this space after they had finished their second product, betting, correctly, as it turned out, that the company would grow. He loosened his tie, pulled it over his head, and tossed it into the passenger seat. He sat for a moment, running his fingers through his thick black hair until it stood up in unruly spikes. There was much to think about . . .

copyright 2006

2006-02-12T13:59:00.001-08:00

World Without End
Excerpt I

Patrolman Stevie McHenry stared out the window at the pale disk of the moon."Guys been walking around up there." He sipped his extra-large double cream, double sugar and thought about how improbable that was. "You believe that, Jerry?"

Jerry sat at scarred wooden desk, a drift of paper sifted out in front of him. He looked over the top of his glasses at the young patrolman. "Course I believe it. What, you think people make stuff like that up?" He snorted and went back to his papers.

McHenry left the window and leaned against the long counter that faced the door, watching Jerry write in the log book in his tiny, anal-retentive handwriting. "My daddy never did believe it. Couple of birthdays ago, I got him a DVD of those guys walking around up there in those white suits, picking up rocks. He said it was made up, just like all those space movies. Believed that til the day he died."

Jerry grunted and continued to write.

McHenry sighed and glanced at the clock.

Two o'clock in the morning. Only five hours until shift change. That was the butt-ugly downside of being a Mississippi Highway Patrol officer. You sat behind a desk in the quiet of the night, waiting for something to happen. He'd been a patrolman for all of a month, and already it drove him crazy. And it didn't help when you pulled a shift with a fossil like Jerry Clegg.

Stevie sat down at the other desk. Jerry’s pen scritched on the paper of the log book. Stevie bit little indentations into the rim of his paper coffee cup, all the way around. At least he could look forward to when Billy checked in. Billy was as old as Jerry, but Billy liked to talk.

The phone rang, loud in the quiet office.

copyright 2006