Friday, February 13, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Captain Darren closed the spyglass: No use going through the inlet if nobody was watching him do it. Even if they somehow saw the ship, there was no guarantee they would open fire. No, he needed something else to gain their attention. He looked to the east, the sun was about to rise. It was now or never.
He lit his pipe then dropped the match to the wooden deck hoping something would spark, but the oak on the old ship had been worn too well, and besides that, the wind was ripping its way off the coastline and right across the quarterdeck. Instead he stamped it out with his boot.
He looked into the darkness again. They had her. They had her somewhere inside that inky night, he knew it. He just had to get them to expose their passageway and he would drive the H.M.S. Heartrender through their hidden passages and park it on their doorstep.
He could still hear her song calling to him through the night sky and even though he knew it was a siren song that called him to his death, he did not care. He felt obliged to get her back since he was the one who found her. Besides, these days, nobody believed in mermaidens any more. Aye, except for he.
He lit another match and this time instead of dropping it to the deck. He held it to the canvas sail, which took its flame easily and spread it across the Heartrender, fire reflecting off the water as the sun rose over Isla Nebula.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
The window lights a corner throwing off a misty glow.
The hearth is burning kindling like it's putting on a show.
The winter sun is westering and shadows start to grow.
The stars are slowly dancing through their ever present treks.
The fireflies: undoubtedly the prettiest insects.
The northern lights are lovely. The moon? It just reflects.
The lightning flashes fiercely turning giant into elf.
The candle seems contented as it flickers on the shelf.
The lantern's creaking cooly. It illuminates itself.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
You grimace and look down at your back left paw. Much as you suspected it's been completely shredded by the wave-spread bullets. Cautiously you take a few padded steps forward. There's a slight limp, but you can deal with it. You override the pain receptors on your right quadrant, but remain concerned about the efficiency grid that continues to drop.
You take a brief second to shake the tension out of the biological aspects of your body then take a sniff around. One of your comrades lies on his side, you sniff him just to make sure, but you're pretty sure he'll live. And if not, they'll at least be able to patch and reboot him.
Next you turn your attention to a nearby tree, one of the bullets is lodged inside. Using your powerful jaw, you chew into the tree until you are able to lick the bullet out of the trunk. It falls to the ground and you immediately snap it back up, swallowing it. Hopefully the forensic nanobots in your stomach will be able to find something and send a report to your conscious mind about where to look next.
The rest of the Cybernines are gone, still trailing the suspect, but you're not quite sure which way they've gone. No news from the nanobots yet, at least not consciously. So even though it's a little more primal than what you're used to dealing with, you sniff the air and howl, something you've not done since they modified your genes. You feel a little bad about it, but hey you're still a dog underneath all the engineering. What do they expect?
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Twas faer the day in the city streets.The sun be standing tall.
The shadows turned to nothyngness.
The crowe begaen to call.
Yon Sheriff sat astride his horse
And watched the village clock.
The short hand pointed straight at twelve,
The long hand back a knock.
And as the bells begaen to toll
His attention he did turn
Up the trail to the edge of towne
Where the dust begaen to churn.
The Outlaw came a-walking
With his hat pulled ‘cross his eyes.
His long grine coat hid weapons.
In his hand, a bag of lies.
“I’m come for ye, daer Sherriff,”
becried the bonny gent.
“To visit out my justice
And to force thee to repent.”
“This golde ye tore asunder
from the people of this towne.
I take it back in their good name
And spit upon the crowne.”
The Sherriff nodded wearily
And yea did he dismount
To meet the Outlaw faece to faece
And start the bloody count.
Twenty paces parted them.
Their weapons they held slack—
The Sherriff’s from his saddlebag
The Outlaw’s from his back.
Across the street of Nottinghym
They watched each other’s gaze.
Will he draw first and smite me down?
Will I in glory blaze?
And seemingly together
Lo, they both raised up their bows.
They quickly notched an arrow,
Drew it back and let it go.
But while the Sherriff’s aim was close,
He struck the bag of golde.
Twas Robyn’s arrow straight and true
That pierced the Sheriff’s fold.
And on that day there rose a cheer
That passed from fact to lore.
Of the hero who doth rob the rich
To feed the graetful poor.