247. What Baby?

“You know what I like about you?” Yul asked Rog.

“What?”

“You know how to let go.”

“What?”

“Frailing.”

Rog shook his head. “What the bullocks are you talkin’ bout?”

“Not everyone can frail like you. It’s an art baby, it’s the art of letting go and I’ve never frailed anyone who can let go like you. Hellocks, most don’t even know they are still holding on and that holding on is what keeps them from being good frailers.” Yul smiled.

“Good frailers huh?” Rog thought about that for a second. “So, you’re saying I’m a good frailer.”

Yul laughed. “Yeah, I’m saying that, but I want to know. Do you know you let go?”

“What?”

“Do you know that when you frail me, you let go?”

“Baby, I have no idea what you’re talkin’ bout. When I’m frailing you, all I’m doing is frailing you.”

“I know. You don’t frail me with ideas or baggage or inhibitions or rules or tradition. You just frail me. And you know what?”

“What?”

“That is the only way to frail, because frailing is not about frailing, it’s not what it appears to be looking in from the outside. Real frailing, the way you frail me, is not an act, an exercise, a game, a duty, an obligation. It’s not lust or desire or control or power or submission. Yet, in a way, it’s all those things and none of those things.”

Rog just kinda stared at Yul like she was speaking in tongues.

Yul continued. “The art of frailing is the art of letting go, of riding the spontaneous waves of two souls on an ocean not of this world, of expression that slips the bonds of you and me and becomes a joining, a synthesis, if you will, a union where one plus one becomes three.”

“Baby, I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but you’re kinda ruining the moment.”

“Exactly! You see?”

“See what?”

“See that everything I just said is adding, not letting go. I introduced ideas, I put baggage on your shoulders, I’ve interrupted the flow and I’m hanging on to my ideas and as long as I hang on to those thoughts, to the ego that wants my ideas recognized, then I’m not letting go, I’m not in the flow and the frailing becomes flat, it becomes ordinary, just an exercise, and you know what?”

“What?”

“When it becomes just an exercise, just ordinary, I want out.”

“Now, those are spanking words.”

“I mean I want what was, I want what can be, I want that zipless, wordless frail that I know is out there. I want that release, that letting go, the letting go that can only be achieved in union, in union with one that knows, knows how to let go, and baby, that’s what you do to me, that’s what you do for me, that’s what you do with me. Don’t you see it?”

Rog smiled. “Baby, all I see is the look in your eye, the warmth of your breath, the passion in your touch.”

“You see the three. You see us, together. You don’t see me and you don’t see you. You do that, instinctively.”

Grinning, Rog said, “You know, you’re making me horny.”

“Talk is cheap.”

“Then shut the frail up and roll over here. I’ve got something I’m feeling a need to, how do you say it, let go.”

And like children lost in play, what was seen and what was felt could only make one smile.

“Rog, do you ever wonder what it would be like to frail a god, to frail the best? You know, somewhere, someone is the best.”

Rog thought about that as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Baby, you do that for me. You take that wonder, that thought and you obliterate it into dust, for when you frail me, I know, in every nerve ending, in every cell, healthy and not, that it could never get, could never be, any better.”

Rog smiled like a poker player looking for the bluff.

Yul noticed that smile and added, “Do you have any frailing idea what that is like? To know, to experience, to enter a flow few ever enter; to reach a destination that fills your body and mind and soul so completely, so absolutely that you feel a joy, an ecstasy that explodes like thousands upon thousands of flowers on the most glorious meadow with golden rays of sun that warm skin with sensations divine and delight eye like candy before a child? A place where steps are taken but not felt, where the expanse of joy is so great, so complete, there is no room for anything else?”

“Baby, have you been messing with those vials again?”

“Baby, look at me. Life is short and we both know why we are here and I just want you to know what you do to me. I don’t want something to happen and never have the chance to say what I’m saying. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never been able to let go like I’m letting go right now, and you know what else?”

“What baby?”

“I’m just frailing exploding with the joy inside of me, the joy you’ve shown me, the joy we create, but most of all, the joy I’m able to express to you, right here, right now. Do you have any idea how it feels to be able to say what I’m saying—the freedom? I’m free baby, free to open my heart, free to express. You’ve taught me that. You’ve taught me how to let go, how to open without fear, how to open without expectation, how to just open. Baby, I may be opening my arms, my legs, but if that’s all you see, you are missing me opening my soul and you are missing our souls at play in the waters of the divine flow.”

Rog pulled Yul tight, his eyes full with unshed tears of a joy he could not explain and he hugged her like they were on the stone floor of her dark bathroom, and as before, Yul felt a hug that was more than a hug—she felt a soul melting into her, she felt minds in tune, the harmony of a pure understanding shared.

As tears christened the moment, the buzzer sounded. “Rog, Yul, this is Mairi. Open up. Hurry."

Categories: Story, Rog, Yul, Mairi

246. Rainbow Owls

Kyra held Em tight, for whose benefit could no more be determined than what was twilight and what was dusk. In warmth, comfort found, and in silence memories roamed, triggered by a touch, a smell, or in this case, a simple phrase that opened the door to a time long forgotten (ago). Perhaps the coldness, perhaps the utter isolation, or perhaps the look on Em’s face and those simple words took Kyra back to Valla, to a time where need and want blended beyond perception.

“Papa, I’m scared,” said Kyra as she pulled her small four-year-old knees into her tiny chest as if she could roll herself into a doodlebug; her chin tucked in the valley of her knees, her eyes rolled upward like full moons looking toward the sun of Papa’s face. Papa sat on the edge of her bed, his tanned complexion appearing golden and warm in the soft light from the nightstand, one hand resting on the bed and the other on his knee. Trying not to smile, for fear Papa would leave, for why would he stay if there was not a fear to ease, Kyra took a breath of Papa, a scent forever consistent, from earliest memories to the dock, a scent that could only be described as a non-scent, a scent of purity, of freshness, of cleanliness, of a fresh ocean breeze, yet, however one wanted to characterize it, the scent was Papa and the scent was confidence and the scent forever held the key to a thousand memories.

“We are all scared Kyra. If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.” Papa spoke to Kyra as an equal, as he would an adult in tone and delivery. There was no baby talk. There was no paternalistic patting of the head, of presupposition, but an openness to share without façade, to share on what he called a higher plane, which was to say, to share with the intent not to protect or even educate, but to share with the intent, to take the opportunity so clear in his mind, to build trust, to build relationship, to build the bonds of love and to do so not as one above the other, not as grandparent to grandchild, but to build a relationship in the flow of love with the acknowledgement that in that flow, there is no superior, no distinction, there is just the melding of souls into the universal mother of existence.

With the very thought that her Papa had fears too, that he was willing to share them with her, Kyra felt her heart open into the warmth of his being, as she would countless times over the next two decades. In later years, her mind often raced to find an incongruity in his behavior, to find a time when she felt she could not open herself to him, and she marveled at how he did it, at how no such time existed. Papa was not perfect, but he was perfectly open and honest and loving.

“There is a sound Papa, from outside. Be very quiet.” And so they sat for a couple minutes like two big radar stations on watch, ears attuned for the sound. “There it is Papa,” said Kyra, her arms springing from her knees like a lock released. “Did you hear it?”

“I did indeed.”

“See, I told you something was out there. What is it Papa?”

“It’s a mother owl singing a lullaby to her babies. The trees around our villa are filled with these beautiful creatures. In fact, they glow the most beautiful colors of the rainbow when they are happy. Would you like to go see them?”

Kyra looked up as if Papa had just told her of a magical tale, one just outside their doors.

“Let’s get dressed,” said Papa standing up. “Put on your slippers and a coat and I’ll go do the same and we’ll go sit and watch and listen.”

Papa came back a few minutes later and Kyra jumped on his back, arms around his neck and legs locked tightly around his ribcage. Papa could feel her small heart beating against his back and he smiled at the great adventure she must have felt. Grandma Kyra stood in the kitchen, a smile on her face, her robe on her shoulders, as they exited the back door.


“Kyra?” asked Em. “Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Kyra smiled, “Sorry Em, I was just lost in thought.”

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Have I ever told you about the time I first heard the rainbow owls back home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s grab a seat. I think you’ll like this story.”

Commentary within the reading: Rainbow Owls




Categories: Story, Kyra, Papa, Grandma Kyra, Emy

245. So Am I

In darkness, an uneasy terror, too vague for name, lurks on the edge of consciousness that is never present in light. Shadows stand silent, each with a story woven by the threads of imagination and memory, of intent sullen in the wrinkled palms of witches scorned. Corners become pregnant with anticipation; closets the hidden cove of demons, the womb of evil black and cold, working mischief in silence too loud for comfort. Patient is darkness, unhurried and deliberate, as if the hands of destruction held back the gods of time, a cruel warp delicious only to those who delight in fields of fear and paranoia.

Kyra meditated as Von and Em slept the sleep of children tired. Her eyes were closed to matters slight as her mind and heart opened to matters grave and the expanse of hope extended to horizons distant and far. On the edges she watched, like storms of thunder and lightning, appearing only from the corners of awareness too slippery to hold, too ephemeral to ponder, intruders neither wanted nor welcomed but present nonetheless.

Em began to stir with a feline stretch of arms and back, her half-open eyes seeing without comprehending. Kyra opened her eyes as the flower of Em unfolded before her, life awakening, precious life unfolding, and that life would have questions of mind and heart seeking answers of logic and love. “Morning Em.”

Em yawned into her small balled fist. “Morning Kyra. What happened?”

Kyra spoke of what she knew, careful to avoid assumption and speculation for fear needed no breeding ground. She kept her tone steady and assured with inventory of facts as if the organization of details was itself a commodity of value with the power to convert fear into hope. Em listened and asked and Kyra answered and listened and so for minutes upon minutes the exchange continued as Kyra felt as Papa must have felt so many times.

When Em had asked her last question and silence prevailed, she looked lost. Kyra sat and waited for what she knew would come. “Kyra, I’m scared,” said Em, her voice humble before fate like a child not yet overcome with the hubris of age.

Kyra stood and opened her arms. Em folded within as a cold puppy nestles into its mother’s belly and Kyra whispered softly into her ear, “So am I.”

Reading: So Am I




Categories: Story, Kyra, Emy

244. With All Due Respect

John led the way walking two paces ahead of his two visitors, eyes moving absently left and right on the ground below like a metal detector scanning for lost treasure on an obscure beach. Clicks and clacks of shoes on hardwood stood for the hum and beeps of device and John’s mind raced to find that rare coin that would make the interminable walk to his office worthwhile.

He ushered his guests to their respective chairs with a professional courtesy fraught with coldness born of strict adherence to protocol, no more, no less. Like a storm approaching, there was no time for niceties and none would be offered and none given; as the cogs from administration liked to say, nothing personal, just business.

A heavy tension could be heard in the absence of words, the space between language where looks and thoughts caroused with imagination fueled in agenda and fanned with scars past and present. Conversation was not conversation but combat, the fighting of battles unresolved, the posturing for position of battles anticipated. Conversations of this sort were never what they seemed to be. Facts were tools and emotions were disregarded as just so much dross.

John was career military, a frontline warrior. His two visitors, career administration, bureaucrats, looked and sounded and even smelled the part. They spoke in bureaucraticese, a language John found utterly lacking in feel or nuance, using acronyms as if they held significance, and spouting policy as gospel and delegating decisions to a higher authority with a shrug of jaded shoulders that belied callous contempt for the very dialogue. Their uniforms were spit and polished, virtually identical. Hell, they even looked the same, as husband and wife of many years begin to resemble the other. If they had been alien creatures, John would have felt little difference.

“I’ve seen the slate. What’s the update?” asked John.

Bureaucrat #1 answered, “You know what we know,” as if that settled the matter.

“Good, then I request to lead the rescue operation.” John stood up as if the matter was settled, a tit for tat he had no expectation of succeeding, and a bit childish, he thought, to even attempt but the damned bureaucrats always brought out the worst in him.

“I’m afraid sir, there will be no such operation,” responded bureaucrat #2.

John sat back down. “Not an option.”

“Sir with all due respect, this is not your call to make.”

“With all due respect gentlemen, we do not leave our dead behind. And that is assuming, and I use the word with full sarcastic malice, there are no survivors.”

“Sir, you’ve seen the slate. The attacking party destroyed our Vollmonds in the attack upon Bravo. We have been hailing all frequencies non-stop. Nothing. There are no survivors. Even if we launched a recovery mission, which we are not going to do, by the time we got there, there would be nothing to find, I hope I need not remind you of our enemy; and, the end result would only put more of our men at risk for a mission with no reward.”

“Well, so nice of you to state an assumption so clearly and coldly as fact. Have you communicated this information to the families? Have you told them you are abandoning all rescue attempts because there is no communication, that you are assuming no communication means dead and destroyed? Has it not occurred to you that communication links could have been knocked out in the confrontation? That we may very well have men, alive, at this moment, this exact moment gentlemen, perhaps wounded, certainly in distress, waiting on help, expecting help, believing that help is on the way, knowing that the very men who put them in harm’s way, would never abandon them? And while those men are dying, we sip tea.”

“Sir, I assure you, your concerns are known and appreciated and I do admire the depth of your convictions. I can see why your men fight for you with undying loyalty.”

“Damn it, no you don’t. If you did, if you understood, we would not be having this conversation right now, we would not be wasting valuable minutes, but we would be taking action. Hold your hands up?”

The two administrative personnel looked puzzled.

“I said hold your hands up and look at them. Tell me what you see?”

No response.

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see blood, blood on your hands, blood that no amount of time will wash away.”

“Sir, we do appreciate your passion and I must say you do have a flair for the dramatic, but the decision has been made. We are not risking more men, deep into enemy space on what is no more than a wild goose chase.”

“Gentlemen, don’t you ever refer to a rescue mission of my men—“

“Sir, need I remind you, you had no right to put those men at risk. Before you start throwing accusations, look in the mirror. We have your logs. You clearly felt that the Hynerians were wrong to pursue that distress signal, when you knew there was no one to rescue. I find it quite interesting that now that the shoe is on the other foot, you seem to have found your morals.”

“Well, you’ve got me there. I’m a hypocrite.” John stood up, leaned over his desk and balling his fist he smacked his wooden desk. “But by God, I’m a hypocrite that will defend his men to the last.”

“Sir—“

“This conversation is over. Get your bureaucratic arses out of my office. Good day gentlemen.”

Categories: Story, John Discovery

243. The Last Memory

The last memory I recall before we were hit, still like a photograph in my mind and as clear as if I were holding it in my hands now, was Von’s peaceful visage looking overblown, as if his entire face had been terribly overexposed. I remember thinking how beautiful he looked in the light, and although I’ve said it before, I feel compelled to say it again, for there are moments, images if you will, that you are certain will remain with you, as vivid as the instant, for all your days; and Von’s peaceful white sublime face is one of them.

The flash could not have lasted for more than a second, and although I felt my body was stuck in slow motion, my mind raced like fire with wind on a dry day. I knew what was happening and I knew Von knew what was happening, and I know this will sound strange, but I simply couldn’t take my eyes off of his expression and there was a part of me that wanted that peace, that acceptance without resistance, I wanted to ascend to a higher plane of existence, and I knew, don’t ask me how, but in just a look I knew Von was in that place and I felt envious.

The sound of impact, for you have to remember Bravo had virtually no defenses, well, how do I say this; we felt the sound as much as heard it. Hynerians like to put things in neat containers with neat labels, this and that as Papa used to say, and so we tend to do the same with sight and sound and touch as if they were separate things. They are not. Every bone in my body rattled, my teeth ached, my elbows stung and my head pounded with a headache from the inside out as if the bats of hell had awoken and wanted out but could not find their way.

I looked at Von and his eyes looked without looking, they looked with the glassy appearance of the dead, with the look of not looking, and if you had told me I was looking at one underwater, one who had given in to the sea, I would not have argued. I saw movement and at first I thought there was someone else on board, that we had been invaded, violated, but then I realized the only thing moving was Emy and Von and myself, and we were moving not of our own volition, but at the whim of sound and light and impact. Like dolls we were tossed about and the very confines of our haven, Bravo’s bridge with edges sharp, threatened us the most and, believe me, the irony of being impaled by my own ship crossed my mind.

From blinding flash to utter darkness, of ship and mind, must have been less than a second or two. How long I was unconscious I could not say. I woke to the familiar coppery metallic taste of blood in my mouth, a pounding pulsating headache and the most eerie quiet you can imagine, which only made the throbbing of my head all the more noticeable. No hum of systems, no shuffling of crew from here to there—nothing. One emergency light shone, flickered as I recall in a rather aggravating way in the upper corner of the bridge and a small amount of light came in from the forward window. Upon that light I spied what I call the lump of Von and the slightly smaller lump of Em.

I pulled myself up, rubbed my temples, to no avail, and looked around through the dim light, trying to find my bearings. With my heart banging in my chest I went through the routine. Whenever you suffer dramatic injury, your body releases such a shot of adrenaline that often you never feel the extent of your own injuries. So I stood up, walked around, stretched and felt for blood until I was sure I was still whole and well, or at least well enough. Then I checked on Von and Em, without waking them, and they both seemed to be, at least outwardly, okay. I didn’t want to wake them until I had a better understanding of what had happened and what could happen and exactly what the condition was of Bravo. I also knew, if they were injured, I couldn’t take care of them, although I would feel the need to do so, and that need would hamper what I could do. As Papa always said, never let what you can’t do interfere with what you can. So they remained in sweet repose.

I walked, rather stiffly, to the central control panel, and through the haze of light and the fog in my mind I began flicking dead switches, over and over again, as if one more flick would magically fix everything. All systems were down. When I say all, I mean, with the exception of temporary auxiliary emergency power, Bravo was for all intents and purposes, dead in the water. If whoever or whatever attacked us wanted to destroy us, not that we could have done much about it before, but if they wanted to take us now, in any way, shape or form, there was nothing we could do. To make matters worse, our sensors were down, so I had no way to determine when the next blow would come, what direction it would come from or even who exactly had or was attacking us.

As you might imagine, with the surge of adrenaline pumping through my system, my first response was defense. Well, we were defenseless, and I rationalized, it was just as well I let Von and Em sleep, for if another blow was coming, what purpose would it serve to wake them. And, just for a moment, for the second time, I envied.

With the passing of each minute, I felt the fear of imminent destruction pass and I relaxed. As I collapsed in the captain’s chair, the familiar warm venusian leather felt oddly cold to my touch and a bolt of lightning shot through my aching body. I jumped up, and quickly perusing the minimal data available from the auxiliary power, realized the threat we faced was of a different order. You see, we had no communication, we had no power, and in a matter of days, we would have no heat and no air.

Categories: Story, Kyra

242. Parallels

Kyra walked down the corridor to the bridge with steps light, steady and deliberate.

John’s carain pulled inside the central courtyard of his estate.

Von and Em were on the bridge, both hunched over the central control panel.

John stepped out and to his left stood Cait and Ariel, who shot out from her mom like a rocket, half running and half skipping, to John’s open arms.

As Kyra approached the control panel, she took note of the red glow illuminating Von’s gray beard.

John hugged Ariel like a great coat one size too large, and his bundle of energy put her tiny head on this chest, her ear next to his heart. Cait stood at a distance and then John noticed two figures in the shadows to her right.

Em looked up first and then Von. Without speaking they both stepped aside and Kyra glanced down upon the sea of red, like distant stars, twinkling and winking.

John picked up Ariel and put her on his hip. Cait looked nervous. As he approached she motioned and the two figures stepped into the light, slate in hand, faces somber.

Kyra opened the comm link. There was no response. She looked at Von and he looked back, neither upset nor anxious but rather peaceful, in a resigned sort of way, as if he had opened himself to the hands of fate with complete trust.

John looked at the slate, looked at Cait. She held her arms out and took Ariel. “Go,” she said, strong to the last, resolute in duty. John hesitated and she repeated her order. “Go, for you can’t come back till you go. And I want you back, here, not back there. So go.”

“Options?” asked Kyra.

“If you believe in Janus, pray. If you don’t believe, pray anyway,” said Von. “Either way, do it now.”

Categories: Story, Kyra, Von, Emy, John Discovery, Caitlin, Ariel

241. Von's Journal #2

Von rolled out of bed, scratched his head, more from habit than itch, and prepared a pot of snizzle. With the brew on, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat down at his desk, his quarters as quiet as an abandoned barn in the afternoon. Pulling out his black notebook, he began to jot down ideas, as he always did, in no particular order, with neither rhyme nor reason.

You are one day away, one action, one moment from having no influence.

Life is an opportunity, a gift—not a guarantee, not a given.

Everything matters—every word, every look, every touch, no matter how small, it matters.

Better to be kind than to be right.

Power, authority is never what it appears to be.

Space is not all that different from Silus and those twenty-one day solitary retreats. Where others see the void, the unknown, I see and feel the infinite ocean that gives all, takes all, is all.

There is no escape. No matter where you go, there you are. On Hyneria, one was under the illusion of escape. The illusion that if I don’t like it here, I can go somewhere else, and it will be different there. Don’t like this job, find a new one. Don’t like this town, move. Don’t like this spouse, divorce them or find another. The problem, however, is there is no escape from ourselves. Travel 100 million parsecs and in that place, everything you ever were, everything you are, is right there. In fact, the very idea, the very thought is wrong, false and only leads to pain. Problems are the illusions. To run from an illusion is to believe that a dream is real. The lover in slumber warms not the pillow beside us.

So step one is to see problems as the mist in the dawn—only does it persist until the light of awareness burns away those eidolons of our imagination.

A vessel is only a vessel when it is moving. If it won’t move, if it doesn’t move, is it really a vessel? Or is it simply an idea of a vessel or a former vessel or what could be a vessel. Life moves. Not-life doesn’t.

What does it mean to be the same? If I am different today than I was yesterday, if I am more or less, am I the same? I killed some brain cells last night. I also created some new connections in the plasticity of my mind. Still other electrical connections have faded such that what I knew yesterday, I know not today. So I ask myself, who am I? Or, perhaps, who was Von yesterday and who is Von today and are the two the same?

If I show you a picture of me as a child and I ask who that is, is the anwer—that’s me? If it is me, can you arrange a meeting with that young man? No? He does not exist? Really? Where did he go? Did he die? Who was he? And who am I today, if not the ghost of a thousand former me’s, all forever gone. To be born to the present, I must die to the past and so my whole life is nothing but coming and going, living and dying, forever changing, moment by moment.

When I say I’m here, what does that mean? And if I am here, am I totally here and if not totally, then where is the rest of me and how do I perform this magic act of being here and there at the same time?

Do I see or do I construct?
Do I hear or do I translate?
Do I love or do I judge?

In the spirit of oneness—I should have told Kyra this last night—it is impossible to piss on someone else without pissing on yourself. We all swim in the same pool.

In the flow of love, which is the flow of oneness, life is good and easy and natural. Outside the flow of love, life is painful and hard and filled with the friction of resistance.

We join, we belong for either love or fear. Where there is one we do not find the other, but only love beats within our very fiber. Fear is the intruder.

So what do I love and what do I fear? And how honest is my inventory? Can I eat my list or does it evaporate like cotton candy?

When the slate is blank, what is my default position? Who sets my default position and who can change it?

Note to self: spend more time with my bamthems and flutrices.

The way of no way is the only way to avoid the wrong way; but before one can know the way of no way, one must first master the way of way. Ultimately, the way is both way and no way without being one or the other.

Von placed his pen down and took a deep breath. His snizzle was ready and his mind, well, it was still damn itchy.

Categories: Story, Von, Journal