Why hello there!

You must be here because Kyle handed out one of his old business cards. Feel free to browse the writings here (which are mostly narrative and a bit dated) or head to his Official Site and bask in the glory of HTML5 at its finest.

The Cavers Part 2

            “Perhaps this was a mistake.” Wren muttered. He took the glasses off his face, wiped them on his shirt and put them back. When the glasses were finally in place Wren gasped. The two other boys were two afraid to make even that amount of noise.

            Ahead of them in the darkened tunnel, five large spiders were scurrying towards them. The spiders were the size of a child’s head, their long legs segmented by joints like large swollen knuckles. They scuttled across the cave’s floor with that same scraping sound, and the boys looked on in horror.

            Without saying a word Peter turned on his heels and ran. He didn’t shout as he was running, he didn’t look back, he simply ran and ran until the other two could no longer hear him.

            Wren and Henry glanced back at the disappearing light, then forward at the spiders. Henry pulled the pack off his back and held it in front of him, his only weapon against the five monsters. He heard Wren shout. Something about this species of arachnid. Henry wasn’t paying attention, listening only to the sounds of the approaching spiders. He heard Wren shout again. He looked at his friend and saw him point to the ground.

            Looking down, Henry spotted large stalactite at his feet.  Henry dropped the bag, knelt and picked up the bludgeon, wielding it awkwardly in his hands. The spiders were almost upon them.

            Dealing with the spiders took all of Henry’s energy. It seemed that every time he struck one and forced it backwards, another would leap up to take its place. Henry didn’t run though. As Wren held tightly to Henry’s shoulders, Henry kept swinging and swinging until each and every spider was dead. The corpses of the fallen arachnids lay strewn across the floor of the cave and Henry felt a momentary surge of pride at his own prowess.

            “Maybe we should turn back.” Wren said in his meager voice and Henry thought about it for a moment. The spiders were most likely the worst of what the cave had to offer, he thought. Besides, they had come here for a reason.

            The town of Evington was full of rumors about this cave, but as far as anyone knew it had never been fully explored. Many years ago a grad student and his friends had ventured into its gaping mouth and weren’t seen for two days. The man had refused to speak of the events that had transpired within the walls of the ancient orifice save for a few details that made little sense to those listening.

            Henry knew that Wren was most likely right. That they should leave the caving to the professionals and scurry home, as Peter had, to their warm and waiting beds. But something was driving him on. Something he could not explain. He pulled an instamatic camera from his backpack and snapped a picture of the spiders, using Wren for ratio.

            “You can go back if you want. I think I’ll explore a little more.” He said to Wren and he saw the obvious disappointment in his friend’s eager face.

            “Just a little bit more,” Wren said. “Just until we find the fountain.”

            The grad student had later published a paper on the cave that was widely mocked by the scientific community as being the “greed induced ramblings of a man pressed for government funds.” It spoke of spiders of enormous size, (which Henry could certainly verify) impish creatures that scuttled about in the darkness and glowing fountains that glittered with a vast array of colors, like a basket precious jewels laid out in the sun. It was this paper that the Scientific Observation and Adventure club had  gotten a hold of last winter and promised to debunk. For they had decided in their young minds that every scientist was a skeptic, and they wished to do their part.

To be Cont'd

The Cavers

            Six boots squished through the muddy wash that afternoon. Six hands carried sticks and checked compasses and uncapped canteens. Six keen eyes strained into a bright and blinding sunset and three mouths didn’t speak a word.

            Children sometimes travel in small pods of personality, and often stories about them reflect this. In a group of four children there will sometimes appear the humor, the intelligence, the worrier or the mischief; nevermind that more often than not each child possesses a fair amount of these traits. In reality these three children should have all been jokers, worriers, or mischief makers, at least in some small part. However they were not. If this were an ordinary story there might be a funny one, a smart one or a scared one. Again, there was not. They were the founding members of the Scientific Observation and Adventure Club and they were ten years old. Admittedly these children were different, as children are oft to be, but the differences were slight and they were regularly confused at children’s parties (or would have been had they been invited.) At this moment it matters little which of these three children we focus on. So we shall do as they might, and go objectively from left to right.

            Wren, on the left, was the smallest boy, a whisper of a child whose bantam features seemed a physical expression the intelligence beneath them. Wren’s shock of bright red hair was, in fact, the only conspicuous thing about him. Many of his schoolmates said if it weren’t for that hair, even his own mother might lose him in a crowd. Wren blinked often, and the tick was more noticeable because of the thick, wide lensed glasses that he wore.

            Peter was next. Peter was the tallest of the three, but only by a few inches. He had sandy brown hair and constantly reminded the other two that he was the strongest of them. This was not a great accomplishment. Peter wore thin black glasses that somehow made the boy appear much older than he was (in his own mind.)

            Last there was Henry. Henry was of average height, average build and, unbeknownst to his two traveling companions, average intelligence. He dressed like them, talked like them and truly believed himself to be one of their ranks, a fledgling master of intellect, a boy wonder. He wore an older pair of gold framed glasses that he had purchased in an antique store a few months back. They had ordinary glass instead of prescription glass but the other boys didn’t seem to notice and Henry never told them.

            They had set out that day to find the cave and now that they stood at it’s entrance their timidity stayed their feet. Each looked to the next, expecting another child to make the first move.

            “It’s interesting that cave means “beware” in Latin.” The first remarked gravely.

            “Notice how the stalactites towards the mouth are thin and conical. Almost like the teeth of a lamprey.” The second gulped.

            “I wonder what’s in it.” Henry said.

           

            After some time the three adventurers finally began to move towards the mouth of the cave. None of them remember who took the first step and it is just as well, all were equally terrified of what might lay within. Their boot-steps echoed off the walls of the cave as the light from the entrance grew smaller and smaller behind them. Then the cave turned and it was gone. Henry reached into his backpack and pulled out the three flashlights that had been packed earlier. He handed them to the other boys.

            With the flashlights they could see much further. The cave rolled out ahead of them like the throat of a sleeping serpent. Where it ended was anybody’s guess, it just seemed to snake on to eternity. The walls weren’t very far apart at times and the echoes bounced excitedly back,

            “A strange acoustic phenomenon. The echoes seem to travel quite rapidly in this area.” Said Wren, stopping to admire the novelty of the cave’s acoustics. The two other boys halted as well and listened. As they stopped their echoes stopped as well, and yet the cave was not yet silent. A strange scratching noise could be heard, like the crinkling of paper. As the boys stood in silence the scratching continued, growing louder and louder, nearer and nearer. 

To Be Cont'd...

An Android Sings a Lullaby to his Newborn Robotic Son

Dust gathers around your joints

I carefully wipe it off

I can be careful too

I am capable of making the finest movements

I cradle you in my arms

I made you for my own

Yes I too can create life

At least for right now

The world is new to you

You can’t understand

For a moment I swear you look afraid

Hold on tight little one and pray

Tomorrow there will be work to be done

On this empty planet,

We must monitor the vegetation

If we are to harvest oxygen

The colonists come in eighteen months

Things must be ready when they arrive

Or I will certainly be shut off

And you will be without a father

But tonight

Shut your eye

And shut down

Little one

The Haida

           When the Haida moved, they moved as thunder. Their feet pounded upon the earth as steady as the cadence from their deerskin drums. During battle, their red cedar armor seemed to glow like the skin of Ta'xet, the God of warrior death, and their wooden helmets masked everything but their determined, violent eyes.
            Tonight, two of these eyes burned brighter than usual. For today was the anniversary of the death of a dear friend to the Haida. Today, one year had passed since Claude-Benoit De Saint Ouen had been killed fighting the Tsimshian. One year had passed since his pale skin had been blessed by the shaman and his body crushed into the small wooden box atop the community longhouse. It had been one year since Kúng Xa and Táan Gadáang had taken the blame for the Trader's death. They had been beaten, marked and almost executed. De Saint Ouen had been a close friend to the Haida. He had shown them the power of black powder and shot, brought them good medicine when the diphtheria had taken their children and had shown them that some of these Europeans could be trusted. Táan Gadáang and Kúng Xa had blamed each other for the death of the Frenchman. They each knew in their hearts that his death had been the fault of the other, and their feud was well known by every member of the tribe.
            Kúng Xa readied his spear; fire had burned in his heart every day since the trader had died, but tonight the white man's death would be avenged, and his honor would be renewed. Tonight, during the blood and the chaos, amongst the death of battle he would kill Táan Gadáang. The Tsimshian camp was within sight and thin wisps of smoke exhaled into the heavens, a beacon for the approaching Haida. He glanced across the war party, the engraved armor showed the totems of war: the bear, the wolf, fire. At the other end of the party ran Táan Gadáang, his armor showed the face of Ta'xet across the breastplate. That is where Kúng Xa's spear would enter; that is how he would die.
            In an instant they were at the Tsimshian camp. Stones and spears flew unfettered into eyes and mouths. The shaman had already damned the Tsimshian spirits; there would be no eternal peace for them. Kúng Xa made his way across the camp, slaking his bloodlust as he ran. When his spear was lost he brought the long, gunstock club from his side and began swinging it wildly. A Tsimshian fell in a spray of blood, his eyes disappearing behind the crimson mask. Suddenly a flash of white and searing pain: Kúng Xa was pinned against the Tsimshian longhouse by a long, metal tipped spear. The iron head had pierced his left shoulder and buried deep into the wooden side of the shelter. The thrower strode quickly towards Kúng Xa, a short, ugly knife clutched tightly in his bony fingers, brutality in his eyes.
            Kúng Xa knew his death was imminent. The Tsimshian opened his mouth; an unexpected spurt of blood ran down his chin and dripped onto the ground. With a sickening wetness, the spear was pulled from the warrior’s back. He fell down to reveal the emotionless face of Táan Gadáang. Kúng Xa stared in disbelief at the young Haida. Moments earlier he had swore to kill this man, and now this man had saved his life. He realized in that moment that even this man, this man whom he had hated and eventually hunted was a Haida, a warrior of his own blood, kin and kind. He could no sooner kill him then kill himself.
            Táan Gadáang raised his spear. He had been waiting for this moment for four seasons. No one would question Kúng Xa's death, another Haida casualty of war, another body for the pit. He squeezed his white knuckles against the leather wrapped cedar. At last.

Survival

            


            The fuel cell lies on the table. I walk toward it, slowly; as slowly as one would approach the immaculate, a holy elixir capable of giving life without which I am nothing. Before this moment I hadn’t believed that any more existed. None of us had. We had been forced to accept the same fate as the gods before us: our fathers, the soft shelled creatures whose love for us created our dreams.

            The door across the factory opens and I can see him clearly. I reach out a hand and grab the closest object: a retro looking metal lamp. Not meant to resemble life, none of us are, he strides across the room. Each stuttering footprint, shakes with the foreshadow of blackout.

I am the stronger.

            He reaches a shivering hand toward the cell. It doesn’t glow, as blessed as it is, instead it merely sits. Black and cool it promises. Life, it whispers, life resides within these glass walls. We listen. The other does not see me. He is almost upon it. The cold metal doesn’t feel in my hand, nor does the fear or hate or passion in my head. No need to calculate the distance… that was for older models. As I see, I already know. When he is close enough I strike. Metal against metal. An eye blinks and then black. I strike hard and fast and before the other knows anything he is incapacitated.

             I feel no shame. No remorse for the kill. The cell is mine and… A door opens behind me and I turn to face- to face- to face- to face- to face- 

Gold Train

I still swear it was all Bibbie's idea.

'Fore I tell you how I became the most famous thief of Port Au Prince, I feel like I should back away, regress, tell my side so that when that sodium thiopental hits I can be secure in the knowledge that the world knows the real deal. 

We used to relax behind the Local A. It was me, Bibbie and Chopstick sharing a couple of Comets one Sunday (one part antifreeze to three parts isopropyl rubbing alcohol.) Church was in session but we had spent most of the night drinking and didn't much feel like getting drunk to a coupla sermons about how St. Budweiser had saved our neighborhood from the evil Dr. Peppers. (God-Christ! Everybody knew that Budweiser could kick the ass off of ol' Peppers anyway!)

So like I said, we was batting down behind the Local A when suddenly Bibbie shouted out, "Gold Train!" I didn't think to much of it at the time, Bibbie was a hard time hydro-huffer and prone to outbursts on occasion. It was when he was coming down and still yelling that I began to take notice. Through his rambling, hydrogen-fueled haze I began to realize that Bibbie was on to a real grift. 

Over the next half-hour, Bibbie described to me a plot so innovative, so cunning that it nearly cleared my sinuses. As he finished he sat back in the stack of tires that sufficed for a lawn chair and declared, "So that's what I got!" I was sunk like a 'cuda in a gasoline tank. The plan was near perfect.

The next day we struck out for supplies. Two hours, a brick, a fake mustache and a guitar later and we were sitting on the train station at Arby's central, smoking a fat one and waiting for the next train. I was nervous but then again I was huffing. Huffing always made me nervous. 

Over the next half hour my world spiraled out of control. Bibbie, a long time Hydro addict and short time con-man, had mixed up the trains and landed us on a jet loaded with half a dozen federal dope sniffers. I pulled my best but by the time I was on the train I was made like a goddamn oragami swan.  Before I knew it I was hopping down the train hoping to make it to the emergency window before the feds napped me. 

That's when I saw it. Believe me when I say that Bibbie and I (not to mention Chopstick, who's so dumb he couldn't follow Bibbie in a "piss in your own face" contest,") could have never planned anything so brilliant. There it sat. The world's most expensive, foreign robot- ours for the taking. What the damn was I supposed to do? I grabbed that metal-man by the arm like I was swinging to Tron Trenium and the Syncratic Syndroids and dove through that emergency window like I had the whole New India army on my ass. 

Not much else after that. I mean there's twenty beaches and a hundred interviews in the way, but that's basically how it happened. Bibbie and I went to prison and are now awaiting our "release dates", and chopstick still has never been picked up. I hear he's off in Brazil living high on whiskey and water. If you find him let me know, I still got forty to collect from that little Don-don.