They Did Not Come Prepared.

class portfolio, fiction

Exhaust shrilled out from between armoured plates as the engine ground to a halt. The soldier was trapped. Its treads, which had performed so well in factory settings, had become bogged down in the infirm west coast mud. It was the last of its platoon, the last of a noble battalion sent from home to lay waste to the infestation of organic life that had taken seed on the foreign soil of this unfortunate dimension. The mission was organized with such expediency that the conditions of the other world were barely considered.

The soldiers had never encountered plantlife so dense, or indeed, at all. The first to emerge from the portal grazed against a branch of salal and immediately shut itself down for decontamination. Its brain ejected from its armoured shell, and fell into a puddle, where it was crushed by the heavy treads of its comrade. Its last thoughts were an explosion of brilliant blue errors spread in sparks across its circuit board. The killer, a unit whose serial designation was S-002, was mortified.

“What has happened,” it signaled in panic. “What has become of S-001.” Its treads squealed as it rotated on the spot, sensors erupting in a frantic search for input.

“What has this unit done.”
“S-001 understood the mission,” assured unit S-003. “The circuits would have been damaged by the water. You did what had to be done. The core data of S-001 will be preserved in the central mainframe.”

They had not been tempered to withstand such levels of humidity. Rain thundered against their armour and sloshed against their treads. On the first steep incline, half their number slid backwards into the ocean and were lost. Just as the survivors reached the plateau, S-004 rolled over a root, tipped up and fell on its side. Its sensors coated in mud, it shrieked a distress signal on all frequencies as gravity dragged it slowly down towards the water. Its weight carved a trench in the wet ground. It rocked back and forth as it attempted to right itself, but its cylindrical body made it impossible, and its efforts only hastened its descent.

The path was too narrow for its comrades to turn around and offer assistance – but brave S-003 attempted against all odds. For a brief instant, articulated claw clasped articulated claw, but S-003’s top-heavy frame toppled. It went rolling down the mountainside, shattering many young trees. It was dashed against the rocks below. The last signal sent out by unit S-003 displayed thus:
“This unit could not perform its duty.”

S-002 replied,
“Unit S-003 fulfilled performance specifications.” It remained within communication distance of unit S-004 until the ocean claimed it. The two of them exchanged memory files they had shared with units S-003 to S-006 in commemoration of their performance. S-004 accepted its fate with dignity.
Alone, unit S-002 trudged on for days. Every rotation of its treads grew slower, weaker, until it could move no more. The hateful mud, filthy with rotted organic matter, clogged its every gear. It swatted at salal and fern with its articulated claws, but knew it would be overgrown.

“We did not understand the mission,” signaled the lone soldier, its output set to all frequencies. It had registered the termination of each of its comrades, and knew that not one of them remained, but some bug, some broken piece of code, caused it to signal against all hope to any possible receiver.

Rain poured from the loathsome thick leaves of the trees overhead. Gouts of water burst into steam against the soldier’s overheated chassis. The engine revved a few more times, sent mud frothing in all directions, to no effect.

Sensors indicated the humidity had begun to damage its circuits. Its chronometer was the first of unnecessary systems to shut down. It would never know how long it remained there before it succumbed to silence. Articulated movement followed as rust ate its joints. Its sensors went dark. Its signal began to fade.

“We did not come prepared.”

IMG_0651

The Green Grocer’s

class portfolio, experiment, fiction, scene, writing

At the grocer’s, Neil tries to remember which sort of fruit is meant to elevate his endorphin receptors. He’s uncertain of what that means, but the language of the doctor’s office has taken root in his brain. He’s drawn to the familiar tart green apples, but knows it’ll take something more exotic to trick him into feeling better. He palpates a large pink fruit, fat and shiny.

It twitches and emits a cloud of spicy spores. He drops it back into the basket, where it wheezes out another peppery puff of spores and deflates somewhat. Neil sneezes into his elbow. Decides to let it go.

He takes his groceries (coffee, apples, spinach, milk) to the counter. As the girl packs them into his bag, the Condition reaches out from under his raincoat, reaches towards the rows of cigarette boxes. Her eyes go big. Neil  grabs the tentacle with both hands, bends it around his elbow, twists until he hears it hiss. He lets it go. Like the slapped hand of a child it retreats under his coat. In the ensuing silence, Neil clears his throat and points towards a pack of his brand.

“Those too, please.”

A palpable condition

class portfolio, fiction, flash fiction, writing

A palpable condition

(working title)

The doctor asked for Neil’s medical history, took a blood sample, and palpated his back, running cold fingers over what they called his “condition,” a sort of tumour that rested above his right hip. The Condition extended two sinuous tentacles and swatted the doctor’s hands until he learned to respect its personal space.

“I stopped smoking eight years ago, you know” said Neil, gritting his teeth. “I eat vegetables, too. Walk every day.”

“That’s good of you,” said the doctor. “The test results will be in within two weeks. We might know what to do by then.”

Neil was given leave from work, advised to avoid bright lights, loud noises, crowds, stressful situations, anything that might aggravate the Condition. He sat in his apartment, alone, with the blinds shut, and waited. The Condition grew until it was big as half a grapefruit. The darkness of his empty apartment soaked into his brain and dragged him down like a damp sweater. He thumbed through books he’d read a dozen times, lay on his stomach, eyed the pale paper roll that perched atop his bookshelf. Smelled it. Stale. It had been sitting there for eight years, a mute dare. He stared it down. Blinked first. Time to go for a walk.

At the grocer’s, Neil tries to remember which sort of fruit is meant to elevate his endorphin receptors. He’s uncertain what that means, but the language of the doctor’s office has taken root in his brain. He’s drawn to the familiar tart green apples, but knows it’ll take something more exotic to trick him into feeling better. He palpates a large pink fruit, fat and shiny. It twitches and emits a cloud of spicy spores. He decides to let it go.

He takes his groceries (coffee, apples, spinach, milk) to the counter. As the girl packs them into his bag, the Condition acts up, reaches out from under his raincoat, reaches towards the rows of cigarette boxes. Her eyes go big. He grabs the tentacle with both hands, bends it around his elbow, twists until he hears it hiss. He lets it go. Like the slapped hand of a child it retreats under his coat. In the ensuing silence, Neil clears his throat and points towards a pack of his brand.

“Those too, please.”

Inland

class portfolio, fiction, flash fiction, writing

Inland

Last night, the upstairs had a leak and now there’s a dripping stain above my bed. Never could stay away from the water long. The woodlice recall their marine cousins. They grow fat and bold. Seagulls have taken to perching on the roof and nesting in my window box. I have to move further inland.

This morning the kitchen sink began to drip. I tighten it up (I’ve had some practice). Since I started working the stain’s spread and gone green as an algae bloom. Half an hour’s scraping kills the colour but it’ll be back. I have to wash up. The bathroom sink’s dripping, too. The water comes away from my hands smelling of brine. Better fix it now.

Crouched, I spot a crab by the floorboards next to the toilet. It’s the size of my thumbnail, freckled green-grey. It ought to be under a pebble by the ocean. It scuttles into my palm. I squeeze clean, breathable water from my other hand into a bowl for it. From there, the crab watches me work.

I have to move further inland. I haven’t been near the ocean in years. Must have brought it with me.

Body poem first draft

class portfolio, gif

Certain-Parts-Displaced-rough1

The first (incomplete) draft of an animated gif poem for class.

The poem reads:

I was born with certain parts displaced.
The lines in my face betray me best.
My heart often beats outside my breast
and must be kept
in a red nest
behind my sternum,
a fragile bird
in a bone cage
with the curtains drawn down.

I have written many other pieces connected to this poem, and believe that it could either be rendered as a series of three or four, or else a single long poem with several stanzas.

I will upload this to my gallery once I have completed it.