jinglebells12

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 03:04:18 GMT

SPACED OUT

My father was an avid science fiction fan and the cupboard by the fireplace that served as a storage cupboard, (we didn’t have any bookshelves), overflowed with a motley collection of magazines. Astounding, Amazing, Unknown and many others all dedicated to the wonderful imaginary worlds and adventures lurking in space.

I was born during the Great Depression and my father was a coalminer. There was no money to spare for new books, but for a few coppers, cardboard boxes of mixed books and magazines could be bought from second-hand stalls at the market, and from these our library was drawn.

As a young child I don’t think I ever had fairy story books, but I clearly recall sitting on my father’s knee while he read to me of rocket ships and ray guns. Carried to my bed, my dreams were filled with Martian monsters, and space-suited heroes saving Earth from extinction. I think the Arabian Nights would have been dull by comparison

With ready access to the fireside cupboard and a weekly dose of Flash Gordon at the local Saturday afternoon matinee, it was not surprising that by the time I was ten years old, I too had become a devout science fiction reader. It didn’t matter that Flash walked easily on the outside of his rocket ship, or that his helmet was nothing more than a glass fish bowl, there was no one to shatter my illusions.

In the early 1940s a new writer began to appear in the magazines - Isaac Asimov. Originally, he had no intention of making a career out of writing but rather to use it as a method of making a little extra money. Pulp magazines paid one cent a word at most - a cent and a quarter with bonus[1] Nevertheless, by 1949 he had become established as the world’s foremost living science fiction writer

and I one of his most devoted fans.

Man’s landing on the moon appeared to coincide with the demise of science fiction writing as I knew it. No longer could the imagination be piqued by what might exist on the moon because truth had taken the fun out of speculation - credibility had become an issue.

My older son watched the landing on television at school, and was more interested in the space craft than anything else - he eventually became a motor mechanic.

Younger son watched the landing on television at kindergarten and promptly decided that it would be fun to be an astronaut when he grew up.

As for me, well! If I couldn’t have my science fiction with all the trimmings, I didn’t want ‘science fact’.

As time passed, along with the majority of other families we paid tribute to the Star Wars trilogy, and my daughter went into labour while watching ‘Buck Rogers in the Twenty-First Century’. (She refused to leave the cinema until the film finished). Other than that, there was no emphasis on science fiction in our household although books were plentiful and varied

In his late teens, older son in need of something to read, borrowed a science fantasy book by Terry Brooks from a friend and became well and truly hooked. Non too subtle hints abounded at birthday and Christmas for a particular book of this genre.

Younger son discovered Arthur C Clarke, Asimov and the ‘Gor’ series by John Norman. In my opinion the latter was a pale imitation of the wonderful books about Mars written by Edgar Rice Burroughs devoured by me in my youth, but he enjoyed them. Yes! I know distance lends enchantment, and nothing is ever quite as we remember it - but nevertheless I can’t change my opinion.

After nine years in the army, younger son returned to Melbourne to enter University. Three years later he emerged, the proud owner of a Bachelor of Computing degree (with Distinction). Robert had found his own ‘space’ to explore - Cyberspace.

It is many years since my love affair with science fiction ended but I still enjoy films with a fantasy or scientific theme, and after seeing one such film, I noted that it was based upon a short story by a William Gibson. My search for the book was unsuccessful. A casual remark to my son Robert brought forth the information that he had all William Gibson’s books along with many others of a similar type. I was not disappointed. Here was a new kind of science fiction that revived all the excitement and wonder of my youth. The characters no longer travelled in rocket ships to distant planets instead they used a more sophisticated method of traversing a new venue called Cyberspace. Nevertheless, there were plenty of evil hackers to be defeated and many battles to be fought; and does it really matter if the hero’s ‘virtual reality helmet’ sounded a bit like a bike helmet with wires attached, as he sallied forth to tackle all that black ICE armed only with a virus? There is as yet, no one to tell me that it isn’t possible

I have come to the conclusion that there is a certain kind of writer who retains the unlimited imagination and wonder of the child through to adulthood, and these are the ones who write this very special kind of fiction. It has no permanent name, to me it was Science Fiction, to my sons it is Cyber-science Fiction, and Fantasy Fiction and no doubt my grandchildren will know it by some other name. As scientific fact burns holes in their hypotheses, these authors will continue to discover new universes that man has not yet reached and the magic will live on.

[1] Asimov, Isaac, The Early Asimov Volume3, Panther Books Ltd, Herts, 1974.

Baby Love

Sat, 02 Aug 2008 01:40:36 GMT

I will hold you close in my arms,

your head on my breast -

smooth back your hair

and butterfly gentle kisses across your brow

until I feel you relax -

I will run my finger gently down your cheek

and tease the corner of your mouth

so that soon you will smile.

- a timid smile at first, but then a little

stronger

I will sing you a wordless lullaby

that only mother's know for

it is drenched in mother love,

and presently your breathing will slow,

your eyes close,

and I will feel your breath

like feathers on my bare skin.

I will hold you for a long time, without sleeping

for I know that I am all

that stands between you

and that which bothers you.

And this I will do in

the name of love.

A Moment of Magic

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 01:03:20 GMT

She looked around the kitchen. The dishes were waiting, the stove needed cleaning, the floor sweeping. She walked to the sink and turned on the tap. She smiled at her reflection in the bright chrome and her reflection smiled back. She winked, and the reflections winked back She swished the detergent into a froth of bubbles and blew on it. Silver frosty balloons drifted upwards past her shoulders on a level with her eyes. She smiled and from each bubble a face smiled back at her. She was surrounded by smiling faces. She laughed and each bubble laughed back. She began to sing and the bubbles responded with a magnificent chorale. The room was alive with music. She twisted and turned like a dancer. Graceful ballerina hands dipped and dived into the water, tossing the dishes high into the air where they hesitated for a moment before floating down gently to rest in the dish drainer. She turned and made her curtsey to the broom in the corner and smiled her secret smile.

He moved towards her arms outstretched, and placing his hand at her waist they began to dance. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, wilder and wilder. The walls of the kitchen became a blur, the voices rose to a crescendo, the plates in

their rack became a timpani. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to meld into the music.

Think about it...

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:35:34 GMT

OLD AGE

Old age you say,

To be feared you say

Come off it,

Don’t know what you’re talking about

Don’t have to save for the future

Don’t have one to save for

The kids are off my hands

They get into strife, they have to carry the can

It’s not my load any more

Not only that, if I get into trouble

A quick phone call, and they’re there to bail ME out

Government pays me a pension

Not a lot, but it’s enough

Don’t starve, Don’t go naked

Get a concession on the phone bill

And the gas, and the electricity

Don’t bother with much shopping,

Meals on Wheels does me nicely

Don’t do much housework

Home Help comes courtesy of the Council

Does me bit of washing and ironing too

Gave the car up last year

What do I want a car for?

Get a cheap ticket on the tram

Cheaper than buying petrol

Can have a few beers when I want,

Don’t have to worry about the cops

Got me new teeth last year

Had to go on the waiting list,

But I still had the old ones

Go round to the doctors once a month

Get a check up, chat up the nurse

Makes a bit of a change

Going on a trip with the Elderly Cits tomorrow

Third one this year

Old age you say?

Something to be feared you say?

Wish I’d done it sooner.

More from Michael

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 03:14:02 GMT

LIFE ACCORDING TO MICHAEL

On Sexual Harassment!

‘Davo, what do you thing about this sexual harassment business.’

Davo looked up from his hamburger and waited.

‘If you ask a girl to go out once that’s OK. If you ask her a second time it’s supposed to be sexual harassment. What does asking for a date have to do with sex? You’re only asking her to go to the pictures, not to a motel for the night. Now my Gran says that no decent girl says yes right away, in case the guy thinks she’s an easy mark,

so, how do you know if the girl is waiting for a second asking, or if she really isn’t interested?

Then there was that six year old kid who was suspended from school because he kissed a girl in his class - how could he be accused of sexual harassment, he wouldn’t have any idea what sex was, never mind how to harass. Anyway he said she asked him to do it. It’s pretty stupid if you ask me.

How about telling a girl she looks nice.

If my mum wears a new dress and dad doesn’t say she looks good, he’s in the doghouse for a week. But I’m not supposed to tell Sandra Naughton that her new jeans look real cool, or she looks good in bathers in case she reports me.

Do you know Davo, there’s a sign up in my dad’s office that says, ‘If its not about work, don’t say it!’ It must be pretty boring if you’re not allowed to say anything except ‘pass the ledger’ or ‘have you finished with the copier’.

I always thought women liked to be admired, isn’t that what they get all dressed up for? The makeup, the nail polish the mini skirt - they’re all intended to get a guy to look at them, but when he does look he’s in trouble.

If a girl looks me over or makes any kind of move, I think it’s great. If I hear on the grapevine that she thinks I’m cute, that’s even better, there’s no way I’m going to scream sexual harassment, I’m just going to get right in there and ask her for a date.

I guess I go along with ‘no touching’ though. Nobody should have to put up with being pawed if they don’t want it, but as Gran says, a belt over the head with a handbag can work wonders.

If my date wants to mess around well, that’s OK but if she doesn’t that’s OK too - but ‘no looking’ that’s going a bit far.

You know Davo, sometimes Gran makes a lot of sense. If a girl says yes the first time you ask her for a date, how can you be sure its not because she isn’t getting any other offers. A guy likes to think he’s being chosen because he’s special, not out of desperation. It’s the same with kissing, that should be special too, not something you do out of habit.

Maybe I should join the French Foreign Legion , ‘cos sure as eggs, under this system, I won’t get near enough to a woman to know whether or not I want to marry her”.

Davo wiped his lips, ‘Have a hamburger, Michael. They look good, feel good and you can harass them as much as you like, they love it’.

Through the eyes of youth...

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 00:34:13 GMT

LIFE ACCORDING TO MICHAEL

On Parents!

As Michael said to his mate Davo,‘ Life’s tough’.

And I guess when you’re fourteen years old and feeling your oats, life really can look that way.

‘You want to go to the pictures, OK, what do you get? The picture is for adults only, Parental Guidance recommended for children under 15 - children indeed! Are you supposed to sit in the back row with your mum? Great!

There just isn’t any freedom.

You want to go to a party - what do you get? Who’s supervising the party? are there any parents there to play chaperone? will there be alcohol? Questions, questions, questions! They say they are teaching us to be responsible don’t they? But when it comes to the crunch - they don’t trust us to be responsible. Who’re they kidding?

You meet a girl you fancy and it starts all over again. How old is she? what do her parents do for a living? - you’re not asking her parents out - where do you plan on going? You’d think you were running away to get married instead of setting up a date to go to the pictures.

Even your clothes have to be supervised because your parents pay for them. If you’re lucky, you get parents who realise you want to look the same as your mates, but not all parents are like that.

Remember when you first started school, all your clothes were too big, so you had room to grow. Well, it hasn’t changed - they still try to get mileage out of everything they buy.

Yeah, I know, things cost a lot of money and they’re expected to last, but gee! it’s tough just the same.

Forget to put in an assignment? Just try it! What happens is you’re condemned for being lazy, and not bothering about your education ! Does it ever occur to anybody that sometimes you get plain sick of the whole thing? Timetables; getting- up times; going- to- bed times; coming-in times; going-out times - everything by the clock. When do we get time to just stop and think where we’re going in this world? Whatever happened to freedom of choice? Is that only for adults? When does a kid get the right to say - Hey, stop the world - I want to get off?

Grandma says your schooldays are the best days of your life. Who’s she kidding? I guess she’s too old to remember what it was really like.

I don’t think they’re the best days of your life. In fact, sometimes I think life stinks, especially when you’re fourteen and you’re not allowed to be an adult until you are eighteen. Then you can vote, drink, go to the Casino and everything. You are even allowed to get married if you are silly enough to want to.

I guess being fourteen is just a trial to see if you can last until eighteen. At least that’s the way it looks to me.

‘OK, mum, I heard you. Yeah, yeah, I’ll get on with it.’

Who’d be a kid, if they had a choice? I can’t wait to be eighteen - then it’s me for the open road!

A little bit of fun....

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 23:45:46 GMT

THE COURTSHIP OF AGATHA AND HUMPHREY

The small town of Ampathy; nestling in a tiny valley in Austria was famous for only one thing - its apples. The prolific orchards surrounding the town produced a unique strain of apple that made the most famous cider in the world. The size and sweetness of the fruit was reflected in the inhabitants of Ampathy, who were also very large and sweet- natured. As they were cut off from the rest of the world, and had no television sets, they were unaware that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, their size was unacceptable to both society and the health professionals. And so they lived happy and fruitful lives unplagued by diets or dietitians

The highlight of the social calendar was the annual Apple Picking Ball, which took place on the first Saturday night after the last apple had been picked. The Town Council recognised its importance by having the Council Oompa Band play free of charge. All the residents attended this function. The men wore their formal suits, buttoned high on the chest, and their very best hats, for it was considered excellent manners to always wear a hat in public. The woman wore their prettiest party dresses and curled their hair.

For a long time Humphrey had been admiring from a distance the statuesque proportions of Agatha, and he was truly smitten with love, but alas he had no acquaintance who could introduce him.

to her. He hoped that in the less formal atmosphere of the dance, he might have the opportunity to break the ice.

On the special night he entered the hall, and seeing Agatha sitting on the other side of the room, he took his courage in both hands and approached her.

“I am Humphrey Stone,’ he said, “would you honour me with a dance?”

“I would be delighted,” she answered

and so they took the floor in a delightful waltz.

“Tell me Agatha, do you reverse?”

“Of course I do Humphrey, but are you light enough on your feet to circle around me?”

“ Well Agatha, as you are obviously lighter than me, I rather thought you would circle around me.”

“No! No! Humphrey, I must demur, you are surely at least one stone lighter than me.”

“That is not true Agatha, this morning I weighed myself, and I was a little over 21 stone.”

“ What a coincidence Humphrey, this morning I too weighed myself and I was also a little over 21 stone.”

“Tell me Agatha, do your feet hurt?”

“Well Humphrey, maybe just a little where you stood on them.”

“Perhaps you would like to sit the rest of this dance out Agatha, I understand there is a superb cheesecake being served in the supper room.”

“A wonderful idea Humphrey.”

Taking her arm, Humphrey escorted Agatha to the adjoining room where they consumed three serves of cheesecake, topped with whipped cream whilst gazing fondly into each others eyes.

“May I see you home after the dance Agatha?” he whispered.

Raising her eyes shyly to his Agatha murmured, “I would really like that Humphrey.”

And so began the courtship of Agatha and Humphrey.

Imagination is wonderful.......!

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 03:26:37 GMT

THE SCENT OF VIOLETS

‘Mum? what are you doing here?’

She sat in the seat beside me wearing the blue cardigan I’d bought her for Christmas, two years previously . Apart from the coffin, I was alone in the chapel. I should have been surprised to see her there, but I wasn’t.

‘Shouldn’t you be all … well…sort of shimmery and dressed in white? ’

She laughed, ‘ I can assure you I’m well and truly dead. Who do you think they’ve got in the coffin? ’

She’d never been afraid of death. Her relationship with her God was special - she didn’t need to go to church to pray, she used the kitchen sink for her altar. Sometimes, when my brother and I were small, it worried us to hear her talking aloud while she washed the dishes, it was hard to accept her explanation, that she was just “talking things over with God”.

‘By the way, your dad said to say Hello, and Tom wanted to be remembered to you.’

Dad had been dead for twenty-five years but my brother’s death was still painfully recent.

‘Why didn’t they come with you?’ there was loneliness in the question.

‘Oh! I’m still in the transit stage, so I can come and go as I want. Dad and Tom have passed right over, but I see them whenever I want to.

She rose and moved towards the coffin, I suppose I should say her coffin.

‘They certainly did a nice job of the body, my hair was fixed just right, and the touch of rouge was an inspiration. Very natural!’

‘Don’t mum, please.’

‘Sorry love, I keep forgetting you think of me as being in there. I’m not you know - that’s only a container - don’t be upset. Oooh…scratch my back will you?’

Out of habit, I leaned over and began to scratch the spot between her shoulder blades.

Scratch my back! How often over the years I had heard that request. All her life she had been plagued by a tickle between her shoulder blades. It was a spot she couldn’t quite reach and there were times when it almost drove her frantic. Dad used to threaten to put a concrete scratching post in the living room for her.

‘OK you can stop now,’ I stopped.

She sat down again -‘ I laughed when Rob said I looked as though I was going to sit up and tell him off - I still owe him for not being here for my ninetieth birthday.’

‘Fair go mum, he couldn’t help it; he tried to get the weekend off but his unit had maneuvers. In fact, technically he’s AWOL for the funeral; he said he wasn’t going to miss saying goodbye to you, army or no army.’

‘I’m glad he’s wearing his uniform, it suits him. Always did have a bit of a weakness for a man in uniform.

‘ Did I ever tell you about the Scotsman I stabbed with my hat pin during the first World War?’ we both chuckled. It was an old story, told and retold, yet always funny, because that’s the way she told it.

The ushers fastened back the Chapel doors.

‘The mourners are starting to come in, don’t you think you had better leave? Maisie and Donna’ll have a heart attack if they see you.’

‘Don’t be silly, they can’t see me. The reason you can is because you believe in me. Why do you think I’m wearing this skirt and jumper? It’s how you remember me. I can assure you I’m not really solid at all. If I wanted to be poetical I could say that I’m the essence of the love I had for you, or something like that.’

She got up and walked to where Maisie was crying into a handkerchief. She touched her shoulder and leaning over kissed her gently on the cheek. Maisie wiped her eyes and put away the handkerchief.

‘She’ll feel better now.

‘Look at Donna, why do mourners always feel they have to wear black? I hate it. That black frock makes her look ninety five at least and she’s years younger than me. I…er…mean… than I used to be..er…than I was. Oh bugger it, you know what I mean.

It didn’t seem possible that the mourners were unaware of her as she moved among them touching one here and kissing a cheek there, although as she paused to stroke Linda’s hair, Linda lifted her head and gazed around with a puzzled expression.

Having finished her tour, she went to inspect the flowers, reading each card carefully, and occasionally nodding approval.

‘The flowers are quite nice, aren’t they. Poor old Maisie, that wreath must have cost her a pretty penny. It really worries me the way she wastes her money. Jen was a bit stingy I think, but then that’s like her. You did arrange transport for Maisie, didn’t you?’ I nodded.

‘Did you know it was Linda who asked for the violets to be put in your hand?’ I asked, ‘she said she always tried to buy you the first violets of the season - you were her ‘April Violet Lady’- it’s funny mum, they were the first of the season; the florist had to order them in for me.’

‘Yes - everything Linda ever gave me had violets on it somewhere.’

She sniffed at the violets in her hand, ‘Lovely aren’t they?’

‘Good Lord! Where did you get those from?’

I couldn’t believe this was happening, perhaps the strain had been too much. That’s it, my nerves had snapped. She buried her nose in the tiny bouquet, ‘They were meant for me, so I pinched them out of the coffin. I want to enjoy them while I can.

‘I’m glad Linda had the chance to see me one more time. I’ve always loved that kid you know. She looked just like my first when she was born. The one that died. That’s why she was so special to your Dad and me.’

“The one that died…”; the sister I had never known, the daughter my mother had never suckled, struggling to be born and dying in the last moments of her delivery. When Linda was born my father had gone straight to the nursery to see his first grandchild; he joined us in my room with the tears still wet on his cheeks ‘Hilda lass, its our first baby sent back to us,’ She was a gift they never expected.

‘Yes I know. Robert made the arrangements to get her over from America, fixed everything through a friend in Los Angeles.’

‘And just who do you think blew that little idea into his ear,’ she grinned an oh-so familiar grin. ‘Being invisible has its uses.’

‘Heavens above, can’t you stop manipulating people even when you’re dead? Just how long is this going to go on?’

‘I’m not sure, but it’s fun while it lasts.’

The minister took his place and began the service.

‘Where in heaven’s name did you find that idiot?’

‘You stop it mum. He’s the vicar of the church down the road. You haven’t been to church for years, so don’t complain. At least we’re laying you to rest with a church service, although I’m beginning to wonder if, after this, it’s the right way to put it..’

The vicar’s voice droned on.

‘She nursed her husband through seven years of illness, without complaint, and, in her declining years, when her son’s health failed, she took him into her care and nurtured him.’

‘What a pompous ass. Anyway, how come he knows so much about me - who told him to say all those nice things?’

‘He’s saying those nice things as you put it because I told him all about you and because they’re true.

‘Who says they’re true. I did complain when I was looking after your dad - he’d have made a saint complain. There were times I could have killed him - don’t know why I didn’t.’

‘Why didn’t you dump him in a home then?’

‘It was my duty to look after him, I was his wife, and he was my husband.’

‘Couldn’t have been ‘cos you loved him could it?’

‘Don’t be soppy, we’d been married for 45 years.’

‘And what about all those years you looked after Tom? Have you got a good reason for that too?”

‘I never did anything any mother wouldn’t do.

Oh no mum. What about the time you stayed up all night to remake the skirt I had made for Lilian’s wedding. I’d botched it and it looked awful. It was during the war, and I had spent my last coupons on the material. I went to bed crying, but when I got up the next morning there it was, all pressed and perfect - how many mothers would have done that?’

You were a pretty good mum, and a very special grandmother. The kids are going to miss you and so will I.’

Yes! They were going to miss her. She was always there to listen, when I was too busy and so many times she had interceded on their behalf, and softened my anger. Linda would take her troubles, and grandma would read her teacup and assure her that everything was going to turn out fine, because she could see it in the tea leaves.

‘They’re pretty good kids alright, the three of them. You’ve been lucky you know, they haven’t brought you a minute’s real trouble. Not that you and Tom brought your father and me any trouble either, but things are much harder nowadays. So many more temptations.’

‘Linda wrote a poem for you for your ninetieth birthday, but you died before she could send it to you She called it “Grandma’s Girl”. She was going to read it, but she didn’t think she could manage it without breaking down. The minister is going to read it at the end of the service.’

‘Well I guess I’ll stick around for that, but I’m not staying for the cremation. I know I won’t feel anything, but ….’

‘I understand: it does sound a bit off I suppose.’

She stared at me with an odd expression on her face,

‘Did you really mean all those things you said to the parson? Do you really think I was a good mother? I know I tried hard, but, well you can only do your best, and hope it’s good enough.’

‘Of course I meant them, you were a great mum. Oh we had our differences I know, but when the chips were down, you were always there for me.’

‘You know, if I could cry, I think I would. Oh! Oh! They’re getting around to the gory bit. I think it’s time for me to take off. See you later.’

‘Goodbye mum,’ I whispered as she departed, ’love to dad and Tom.’

For a moment the air was filled with the scent of violets, then that too was gone.

And once again I had forgotten to say ‘I love you.’

In sombre mood!

Sat, 24 May 2008 02:27:00 GMT

AND GOD CREATED MAN:

Night falls.

Grey dragons move through the darkness that is the sky. Gentle purring deceptively soothing to the ear, strikes terror in the heart.

On the ground tiny figures make their way to the safety of the burrows; the young and active alternately dragging and pushing the very young and the very old.

Thy will be done:

Longing to flee and save themselves, they reluctantly clutch the tattered remnants of civilisation around tired and frightened bodies and usher them along.

Occasionally a dragon flies in front of the moon; its shadow spreads across the moonlit ground . The figures shrink back into sheltering darkness, fearing even this reminder of the menace above them. The air reeks with the scent of fear and unwashed bodies.

Thy will be done:

The purring becomes a scream as the dragons begin to empty their bowels of death dealing dung. Civilised behaviour founders as the urge to survive becomes paramount.

Silent prayers fill the air - ‘Dear God don’t let me die! Anyone else, but not me’- ‘Let me reach the shelter in time.’

Thy will be done:

The world is filled with a false dawn. The colours of the sun fall upon the earth, red, gold, yellow. The dragons wish to see the faces of their victims; to see their terror, to watch the skin shrivel in the heat, to smell the burning flesh. A child whimpers, then is silent. An old man seeks vainly for a dark corner before he is torn to pieces. An unborn child dies within the mother; she is his coffin.

Thy will be done:

In the dawn’s light the survivors emerge to count the dead, comfort the wounded, and pity those too damaged to be repaired yet perversely denied the gentle sleep of death.

The cloak of civilisation is re-arranged for the daylight hours. It is only in the dark hours, when panic rules the heart and mind, and death’s breath rests heavily on the neck that the true nature of man with his overwhelming need to survive takes over.

And so it is that those who ran the fastest and pushed the hardest, lean over and murmur soothing words to those who lie in pain, and commiserate with the relatives of the dead, never for a moment accepting any responsibility for the selfishness of their own actions.

Thy will be done:

Delicately they skirt the pool of brains that leaks from the cracked eggshell of a human skull, avoid the blood that is congealing on the sun warmed earth and turn their eyes from the severed arm whose hand, even in death, stretches mindlessly towards the burrows.

The sun shines; the dragons have left the skies. Rescue workers struggle to get the wounded to shelter, but for now the dead must remain where they fell. There is so little time.

The flies assemble in the humid air avid for the feast. They too have the urge to survive.

And night will come again, and again, and again!

Amen