Ephemera
Ephemera
May 03, 2024
Robert and Lisa exchanged vows this morning.
By now, the reader understands where the story is going.
The next pages could divulge a motive for transgressions past and present.
But, the next pages are simply superfluous.
The night fell with ink signatures on an annulment,
Barely older than the previous ones on the license.
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
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. She 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.
Pat
Pat
April 26, 2024
“These will be your final three weeks of training. Pass or fail, you will be deployed. Whether you succeed or not, will be up to you. Patricia, do you understand?”
“My name is Pat. Call me Pat or I will fail, intentionally.”
My trainer expected this level of resistance. He grabbed my arm and injected me with a dose of some type of drug that makes one pass out.
“Patricia, here you are not a young man. So stop acting like one.”
When I awoke, he had dressed me for the role I was to play.
I was wearing a corset and petticoats, heels, a gown, and makeup.
Actually, I was locked into the former, which squeezed me tightly, barely permitting movement, let alone breathing. The latter reinforced what little control I had at my disposal.
“Patricia, as of now, you are on a severely restricted diet. You must have a 19 inch waist soon. You must learn to act as a lady of the court immediately. Please arise, Patricia and make the most of what you still have.”
“My name is Pat.”
I never finished my remarks.
Men always have the ability to hit you in the face exactly where it hurts the most. My trainer struck me hard enough to send me to the floor. I covered my face with my hand as he approached, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up. He took me into his arms and told me to follow his steps. The music began (from where?) and he began to teach me to dance.
“This is the waltz. Patricia, pay attention.”
“My name is not . . .”
He threw me against the wall for the outburst. This time he picked me up across his knees, hiked my petticoats, and began spanking me.
I could not resist. When I screamed, he only hit me harder. When I whimpered, his force subsided. When I stopped, he stopped.
Then we began dancing again.
He told me to smile, or else.
He asked me. “What is your name?”
Instinctively, I replied, “Pat”.
I have not eaten in two days. My bruises may heal in twice that time.
By Friday, I learned the waltz, how to curtsey, and some polite phrases in both French and German. That night, his helpers removed my corset and heels while they bathed me and I ate.
By midnight, I was back to dancing. By 3 am, I was to learn how to write a proper letter. Ironically, morning began my attendance in code school.
My trainer asked my name while holding a tray of real food. I wanted to say, Pat. I wanted to escape the indignities I have been put through.
However, I wanted to eat more than anything else.
So, I acquiesced. I said, “Patricia.”
For this, my trainer hit me harder than ever. His fist found its mark against my lower abdomen. If not for the corset, he would have ruptured both my kidneys and liver.
“Tell me your name. Make me believe you are who you say you are. Say it like the woman you are meant to be. Do this or never leave here alive.”
So many people had worked so hard to transform me to a proper lady. My trainer spent all of his time enforcing my change. I had no other choice.
I introduced myself as Patricia, here to make your acquaintance.” It was all an act, what I thought he wanted to hear. It was good enough.
My trainer placed the food tray on the bed, turned, and departed. I never encountered him or his attacks again.
I slept soundly on a bed for the first time since being brought here. I feasted on a simple breakfast. I still had two “servants” forcing me back in a corset, petticoat, and gown.
I did not complain.
But I did wonder.
Every question began with a “Why”. Every answer led to more questions.
By noon, I was formally invited to the laboratory (this place had a lab?). Remaining in character, I accepted and was escorted accordingly.
Upon entering, my escort departed and I witnessed the machine energize. The prompts told me of the expectations and why I was here alone. I was to travel back in time to New York City, 1895. I would be escorted by no one. My goal would be obvious soon after my arrival.
The last prompt was hand written on a sheet of paper. It read, “Do what you must.”
There was no name attached, but I knew the author.
By this time the lights of the machine shone brightly and I was part of my own past.
The UPS driver arrived earlier than usual. The package he carried made him rethink his decision not to use a dolly to move its girth and weight.
The employees at Richmond Research saw the name of Henry Miller and directed the package to his office.
It sat there collecting dust for the next three weeks. Mr. Miller, arriving for a full day’s work with a boxer’s wrap around each of hands, found it difficult to unwrap the package with the injury a fighter participating in a bare knuckles brawl frequently encountered. It was his birthday, November 5, and he had high expectations. By 10:30am, his expectations exceeded even his wildest dreams.
The NY Times from this day in 1895 spoke of Patricia Sullivan, adventuress who halted the bombing of City Hall. Her actions preceded the election of Secretary of State, Attorney General, State Comptroller, State Engineer, a Court of Appeals Judge, members of the NY State Assembly and the State Senate, and saving her newly engaged finance, Mr. Walter Miller of Miller Woodworks in Queens. Miss Patricia took action defeating the ruffians planting the explosive device, impervious to their fisticuffs upon her midsection. Miss Patricia saved the lives of scores of people this day and was personally married the next by the Mayor of the City himself.
Various photographs of the future Mrs. Miller with her four children and six grandchildren adorned his desktop. While each one had a monetary value to the discerning collector, only one held a sentimental value for him. In it, a doting grandmother, wearing a corset of years past, carries her small grandson, sporting a clearly visible skunk patch of hair, while walking across 5th Avenue, in 1965.
The trainer instinctively ran his hand through his not so clearly visible skunk patch of hair that he used to show as a child. Old age removed the coloration of his remaining browns to match his always present whites.
A single tear ran from his eyes.
Then a small smile arose.
He then knew his real work had just begun.
Stepping
Stepping
April 25, 2024
The future is a locale demarcating where you originated from where you must go.
It is not a rest stop or a place for reflection.
It is a stepping stone.
You are only a visitor when your feet grace its presence.
The onus is not rest, but progress.
Others will follow the path you blaze,
If and only if you blaze the path
For they will not listen to excuses, nor should they.
Taking It All In
Taking It All In
April 22, 2024
I told her to switch
I would drive and she could sleep
However, the car was not to stop
My left foot covered the gas pedal
She used her right foot to raise up
The fit was tight
She sat on my lap and slid to her right
Very slowly
I took the wheel to keep the car on the road
She placed her hand on my thigh to help her move
But she didn’t
Honestly, I didn’t want her to
She just remained where she was
Such is her nature
Awaiting my next move
My left hand moved to her thigh
That spot where the skirt slit opens
She adjusted to permit my success
I smiled to permit further adjustments
The car kept moving
Taking it all in