Paso Por Aqui
Paso Por Aqui
May 01, 2024
I own these streets
It is I that pay for them
It is I that defend them
It is I that keep the people who live here
From moving elsewhere
For my benevolence
I ask for very little
Perhaps and apple when I stroll by
Perhaps a greeting from another passing by
Perhaps something more
As I pass by here
The pavement is as solid as my word
However, today, others see cracks
Cracks mean weakness
And weakness means revolt
My streets do have cracks
As any grandmother has on her own skin
These cracks demand respect
For these cracks display the character
Of the person who earned them
I own these streets
And I’ll be damned
If another challenges me
For their possession
Maybe, I will begin
Taking possession of more than the streets
Maybe, I will want to own the people who walk upon them
Maybe, I will want some more than others
Maybe, I will want all of just one
Just to show what ownership really is
Everything worthwhile in life is made possible by sacrifice
Everything worthwhile in life is made possible by sacrifice
May 01, 2024
Giving Birth
Raising Children
Getting Married
Remaining Married
Graduating High School
Graduating College
Military Service
Helping another whether they want help or not
Burying a Friend
Bailing a Friend out of Jail
Becoming a Godfather
Training for the Olympics
Training for your own Personal Olympics
Eating 30 hot dogs in 10 minutes
Keeping your Word
Giving a Kidney
Expecting nothing in return
Fall…
on hard times
of mankind
into the wrong hands
down
into a coma
out
to pieces
behind
for it
off the wagon
apart
victim to
from grace
into as state of disrepair
(en) angels
of empires
between the cracks
into a trap
on one's sword
short
I find it curious how something purported as being good shares the same phrasing: to fall in love.
in medias res
in medias res
April 30, 2024
Such was in the morning
Beholden by obligations and appointments galore
I witnessed the uncommon of beauty
With queries of “art thou” and wherefore”
From my corner office
I saw her see me seeing her
Her forlorn expression
Expressed sans demur
The ball was in my court
I could extend the volley
I could advance toward the net
Becoming a maleficent Svengali
But I chose to remain where my mind should now be
I chose to forsake a future I cannot see
She will forever remain as I see her right now
Forever languishing as regretful somehow
Day 678
Day 678
April 29, 2024
It is lonely out in space.
The Anfaq Confederacy admired my piloting skills. They did not admire my political opinions. Couple this dichotomy with my severe stubbornness and I am the ideal candidate for long voyage transports.
Thus, I have an indentured contract for a one way haul from Homeworld to Andros-5, in a sublight freighter. My ETA is 30+ years and my cargo is high level radioactive waste that (should) become low level radioactive waste (mostly higher weight transition elements). My bulkheads are sealed as well as my fate. I will spend the majority of my life alone, childless, and (eventually) contaminated. I have a recycler for breathable air, a water reclamator with a few spare parts, and a freezer for recycled food. I can maintain all three with a little skill and a lot of hope. Should I require assistance, I might be able to fix the transmitter.
Then again, I cannot fix the apathy of the people who would need to listen.
In essence, I am persona non grata.
Except on Day 678.
My nav system detected another ship on an intercept course. It was a light raider class, used in the Dacryn Wars. Standard protocol was to answer the hails to identify my point of origin and destination so as to avoid a boarding party search and pillage. Since I have no working transmitter or receiver, I await the inevitable.
The raider pulls adjacent, matches speed, and begins its docking. I stand with my hands in a surrender position awaiting my fate.
I expect the worst to begin in less than a minute.
It is now thirty minutes and there is no boarding party. I keep hearing a tapping on the outer hull. The pattern repeats itself, two taps - pause - three taps - pause - two taps. I could break contact and suffer blaster fire if this is a ruse. Or I could don an EVA suit and meet the party (and my fate) half way.
I opt for the latter and am all the better for it.
Within ten hours, I have Lt. Simmons asleep on my bunk. He was wounded with proximity heavy blaster burns and must have made his escape in the raider. I can balm these with little difficulty. What I cannot treat are the scars from edged weapons and the blunt force trauma (hits/impacts) to his abdomen, legs, and arms.
In essence, Lt. Simmons has seen some combat.
His ship fares a little better.
His nav system works, but is incompatible with mine. His fuel system has failed, but his fuel tanks are full. He has no working transmitter, provisions, or supplies.
If he did not encounter me, he would have died in the ship.
Alone.
The good lieutenant awoke for a hardy meal of recycled carbohydrates, rehydrated in a salt water bath awash with a sprinkle of freeze dried vegetable matter. He thinks it is delicious. So did I on days 1 through 10.
He tells me of his life fighting for the side I was fighting against. He speaks of how things should be and not how they are. He thinks I am a volunteer for the Confederacy.
He is enamored by my circumstance and sacrifice. I am enamored by his build and blue eyes.
My bunk was engineered for one. Perhaps, one day, I will transmit a message to the manufacturer that the bunk's capacity may be doubled under “consensual” circumstances.
I have given birth to three sons, all who died in some war, somewhere. I know when I am pregnant. Today, I will tell Lt. Simmons the good news and the bad news.
First, the good news. I will no longer have to be lonely. Life has a purpose.
Now, the bad news. Life has a purpose only for me.
The good lieutenant is dying from blood poisoning, courtesy the Anfaq Confederacy. Any soldier not in contact with command will be poisoned (most likely from his helmet, through his skin) preventing desertion or imprisonment.
It has been 10 days since he escaped and 10 days with me.
Lt. Simmons is dying fast.
Thus, I salvaged all I could from his raider. I have to think for more than myself. Even if I kept him on my freighter, someone would track my position and notice the error in my navigation. Even a first year cadet could calculate the mass required to make this error. When calculated to be in the range of 50 to 80 kg, first suspicions would be “stowaway”. First corrections would be annihilation.
Lt. Simmons is already dying. There is no need for the two of us to die also.
I gave him just enough fuel to maneuver away from me. He could overload the engines and await what was to come.
I pitched his singular “option” to him at knifepoint (his blaster did not work).
He understood his position. I walked him to the tethered airlock. He asked for a final kiss and received as good as he gave.
He might have given better had the knife not been pressed against his groin.
“What will you name the child?”
“If it is a girl, Misty. If a boy, then Bryan.”
“I like Misty. It is a strong name. Bryan, not so much. Perhaps Edward. That’s my name.”
He leaned close despite my southern hemisphere knife placement.
“Edward it is.”
I watched him enter his raider and disengage from the docking post. His face appeared in the window as I began moving away.
I know a little lip reading, a skill I learned while being a forward observer.
I pointed to myself and mouthed, “Misty”.
As he floated away, I did not see his reply.
In retrospect, It no longer mattered.
In My Mind
All I do is write, while I croon to myself softly. My pages a sheet in a bed made of thickets and stone.
How does one become successful? Relatable storytelling? Putting a spinny hat on my pen cap?
I do not like what is acceptable. I do not write romance for cookie cutter families. I can write scripts with the best of them, given the chance: I could write anything.
Give me two words— I swear it, I could make any idea come to life."I'll do it for free!" I shout at every publishing house like my mouth is a turret upon piles of scrapped cover letters and half-hearted portfolios.
I see those without much to tell besides about anatomy of two bodies slapping together in a garbled up piece of fiction id write at twelve with a book deal or two. I see those with millions made passively as they craft artwork in their multimillion dollar homes because they were born to the right people with the right agency.
But alone? I am the daughter of an immigrant. My words lift the women that love women and that is not enough. I give my fingertips to the cages of those starved and bereaved and still, it is not enough. It is appreciated, but it is not gold worthy.
It does not received awards. It does not receive the love the work I could force through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth could. How do I become a writer, when I write what is not in high demand and which won't be seen? Where does one send their writing, where it will have a punctured throat enough to breathe?
Am I to exist in my mind forever?
