Joyous Yuletides

As another Christmas fades into the cascading waves of time, I find myself thinking about the Christmases it joins in the realm of the past. Just last year, the bacchanal was concluded with my father and I watching Pulp Fiction. No, it's not particularly festive watching Samuel L. Jackson pop caps in fools, nor watching Uma Thurman OD or Ving Rhames get medieval. However, with the benefit of hindsight, I've realized that some of my most cherished memories of the holiday season are those that are that discordant with the stereotypical images thereof.

I recall the family gatherings that we've had. I remember being young, running to greet my elder cousins at the door. On one occassion, my cousin embraced me in an upward bear hug, and haphazardly swung me towards the umbrella stand in the front hall. An awkward silence ensued as the vase shattered into porcelain fragments. While my mother claims no grudge, it is interesting to note that every subsequent year has seen her sequester the umbrella stand in some remote closet for the duration of the evening as some sort of pre-emptive protective measure. I recall with slightly less enthusiasm encounters with my Aunt's boyfriend, who saw these gatherings as an oppurtunity to heckle the youngest of the family (being yours truly). His claims of my homelessness (somewhat idiosyncratic coming from someone in my home) and feminine traits (what can I say; I liked my hair long back then) were met with grimacing smiles. They were also met with a flip of the bird when his back was turned and a murmured commentary that it was all well and good for him to talk about my hair while looking like he could easily pass for Lex Luthor's stunt double.

As it is still fresh in my mind from this year's largely successful attempt, I can easily recall my annual policy of forcible insomnia the night before Christmas Eve. This is a precautionary measure to ensure that the need for sleep triumphs over the typical nervous energy that accompanies the occassion and had at times left me wide awake at four in the morning without the respite of slumber. This process typically involves copious amounts of caffeinated soft drinks and thrillers (which, with the notable exception of Angels and Demons have all been generally excellent).

I still retain vivid memories of those joyous Christmas mornings. In the early days I remember finding action figures locked in pantomimed conflict on the jade boughs of the Christmas trees. It became a veritable easter egg hunt as I began to mistake ornaments for less optimum heroes. In the year that the Half-Blood Prince came out, I slumped into a week long depression after not recognizing that the grim weather of a Vancouver winter made for a potent cocktail with Dumbledore's death. That year took on a distinctly melancholy tone, but also proved to be significant given that it was the year in which I received my first rap album (Joyful Rebellion by K-os, if you're curious) and my first electric guitar, tools that would prove essential to my burdgeoning musical interests. I remember the uncontained joy at finally acquiring an Xbox after months of incessant cajoling. I also remember the uncontained torrent of profanity unleashed when it was met with the dreaded red ring of death two years later to the day.

It's this assortment of memories, imperfect but cherished regardless, that continue to preserve my love for the season. When the tree is standing, resplendent in its arboreal majesty, and the hearth is brimming with warmth, and Christmas music drifts gently through the room, I savour every moment. I savour it because I know that it will soon be locked away in this menagerie of recollection, a golden instance to be observed in the indulgence of my nostalgia. And then I'll probably watch a Tarantino flick.

superman

The man of a steel tomorrow stands guard over the sleeping metropolis
Sees through its transparent fabric, a sentry in the metallic night
From the vantage of his frozen throne
A kingdom of ice and solitude bows to his benevolent command
He is a prisoner on an inferior world
Bereft of the warm clutches of his own
He wears the disguise of a mortal man
While mortal men disguise themselves as him
In a technicolour masquerade that darkens the sky
Blotting out the dynamo of a dying star
He watches it all with tired eyes
That glow crimson with the progression of time
He is the ideal they aspire to
The pinnacle of wordly virtue, heroic ability
But despite deceptive appearances to the contrary
He is not Atlas
And he cannot carry the world in its golden splendour
Ghosts that navigate the avenues of a fractured past
Are phantoms that serve only to lead him to Doomsday

The Manuscript

"The roombot patrolled the rugged expanse of its surroundings. Its progress was slow and methodical, mechanical and calculating. Its solitary goal was to exterminate the humans. The young couple were huddled tightly in the corner, paralyzed in fear of the robotic menace that sought to ascertain their position. They shivered in unison, and with that, the vacuum found them. As they trembled, it felt only the grim satisfaction of success. The machine inched forward menacingl-" Jacob Fleetwood was halted from the conclusion of his riveting prose by the interuption of his would-be publisher James Ramirez. "This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard!" Ramirez exclaimed in a stunned disbelief. "This is dumber than...Ms. Brant, what are four things that are generally considered dumb?" His secretary was thoroughly used to such inquistions, thus was able to restrain herself from adding people who can't formulate their own comparisons to a rapid-fire list of Forrest Gump, Jersey Shore, George Bush and blondes. Ramirez pondered this briefly before informing Fleetwood that his manuscript had in fact been dumber than "a blonde Forrest Gump sniffing glue with George Bush on Jersey Shore". Jacob was struck by the realization that despite not entirely grasping that comparison, it was not exactly flattering to him. "But...but...," he stammered in feeble protestation "this is my life's work. It deserves serious consideration." He added a sir timidly, still under the impression that his manuscript could be published. Ramirez began to exasperatedly explain that the public was not clambering for a novel about an uprising of household appliances. He reiterated that it was a monumentally stupid idea, and that if the public were in the mood for something ludicrous, they could buy...Ms. Brant? His secretary wearily suggested a feather bowtie, Oryx and Crake action figures and Lil Wayne's rock album. Ramirez shrugged. He then asked Fleetwood to leave, as he had better ways to squander his precious time. He looked pointedly at Ms. Brant. She looked pointedly at a guideline on sexual harassment in the workplace. Jacob Fleetwood became desperate, his protests growing in volume, a crescendo of complaint whose vociferous nature would warrant his forcible ejection from the office.

He tread slowly over the January cement, drowning dejectedly in the ignominy of his departure. HE knew he had written a classic of science fiction, but it had proven impossible to convince publishers of its artistic validity. He recognized that while it was a work of populist fiction, it was also a cutting statement on society's technological dependence. The central unspoken theme was one of control: were we in control of our machines, or was the opposite true? However, it had been impossible to effectively articulate this to publishers, especially when they found the idea of a roombot with automatic machine guns laughable. Fleetwood on the other hand found it terrifying.

In a tired display of desperation, Jacob traipsed into a church on his way home. Seated in the pews, he gazed at the ceiling and whispered "God? It's me, Jacob Fleetwood. I know I haven't asked you for much. At least since that ten-speed bike back when I was eleven." Upon reflection, he realized that that had been Santa Claus. He apologized for the confusion. With a red face, he asked for a miracle, for publishers to recognize his literary masterpiece for its true worth. He concluded this prayer with an embarassed apology for the bicycle he'd stolen when he was eleven. He confided that God would probably have followed through on delivering the bike he had asked for for Christmas, unlike a certain fat red-coated bastard.

Across town, in Rubix3 Publishing, James Ramirez was asking Ms. Brant the three things she's most like to do with him over the weekend, with the implication of a healthy bonus if she answered correctly. Her answers were as follows: slap you in the face, tender my resignation and file a harassment suit. She had not signed up for a more lascivious Family Feud. Ramirez watched her smooth contours exit the office with open admiration. Moving in a resigned manner to his desk, he noticed that he had an unread e-mail. Opening it, he saw that it said simply, "Believe. Sincerely, God". Around him he could hear the gentle whir of his electric pencil sharpener, the static hum of his paper shredder, the smooth whistle of his coffeemaker reaching its boiling point. A roombot entered his office in a display of steeled malice. Its mission was simple: terminate the human.

Memories

I want to be wrapped in the sugarcane blanket of nostalgia
Swaddled tight as I look perplexedly at the flashing light
And in an instant, it's gone
And I'm returned to the warmth of abstract happiness
I want to sit astride my history as I pedal it downhill
Over the crisp Autumn leaves
My grandparents looking on with familial pride
I want to wade tentatively through the shallow end of my past
Smiling as the sun glances of the azure water
Holding my breath as I submerge
I want to look up the the celestial tapestry of the night in wonder
Knowing that even this far from home
I am drifting into a gentle slumber beneath the same majestic sky
I want to stumble timidly into the colossal halls in my mind
Stunned by the size of their occupants
Dwarfed by the enormity of my first day
I want to be holding my guitar for the first time
Feeling the Devil take special notice when I draw that spare iota
Of inappropriate sentiment from a distorted squeal
I want to travel through the greying photographs of my past
Until finally, I'm here
Where I belong

Reaching (A Collection of Anecdotes)

"Who was the 37th American president?" drones the quizmaster in an accented voice. "Taft?"I guess hopefully. Nope. It's NEVER Taft. I probably should have realized that by now. but I constantly hold out hope that history's fattest president will be granted the recognition he so deserves. After all, he did need a custom-made bathtub to accomodate his significant girth, a major distinction amongst his political brethren. I have time to think about this because it's a math category, and I'm absent-mindedly doodling a happy face which is imploring me to have a nice day. I lost all my mathematical ability around grade eight, and have since maintained a passing average solely through the virtue of petty bribery. C'est la vie. A french term meaning (approximately) "that's life", which by modest coincidence is the answer to the next question, which I snag quickly. When a question asking who the son of Jonathan and Martha Kent appears, I am so firmly entrenched in debate over the ridiculous nature of the question that I barely register an opponent claiming the correct answer of Superman. I contest this, bringing up the perfectly reasonable point that the Kents were childless, and that their ADOPTED son's real parents were Jor-El and Lar-El. Apparently this degree of fanboy zealotry is frowned upon in decent society. I mumble something about the prevalence of philistines, but otherwise hold my peace, as, despite evidence to the contrary, I try to subscribe tothe latter over the former. I answer with the names of great cultural figures; Jules Verne, John Milton, Sid Vicious, Kanye West. The round is a blur, punctuated by lapses of knowledge that hang over us in an amusedly guilty fog. By the end we have performed admirably, our bredth of knowledge as surprising as it is impressive. But that doesn't mean we won't continue reaching.

Snow Angel

Do you want to be a ghost in the machine?
I'll hide my tail if you show your wings
We are stuck between angels and animals
But there's a spectrum between us

Children in the meadow, making snow angels
Are just amateur artists, crafting portraits of you
Snow angel, fall into my arms
And I'll pretend that I know what to do

Do you want to be a ghost in the machine?
I'll hide my horns if you show your halo
Relax into the tentative euphoria
That'll keep me warm in the winter

Children in the meadow, making snow angels
Are amateur artists, crafting pictures of you
Snow angel, fall in to my arms
And I promise that I'll follow through

Elephant Graveyard

Well it smells like desperation
Another mime trapped inside invisble walls
A reptilian serenade to break down the barricades
Propping up dominoes to watch them fall

Yeah, oh yeah, the penitent criminal can do no wrong
Yeah, oh yeah, elephant graveyard, I won't be long

Well I haven't heard any escape plan
The claustrophobia becomes a chore
Animal laughter from mechanical actors
Fortune on his damn quarrel showed like a rebel's whore

And I'm ready...

Yeah, oh yeah, the penitent criminal can do no wrong
Yeah, oh yeah, elephant graveyard I won't be long
Yeah, oh yeah, the clocks ticking somebody's song
Yeah, oh yeah, elephant graveyard, I won't belong

Junk Drawer

A lighter, translucent blue, half full of kerosene. It prompted my parents to assume I had developed a drug habit, when in reality it was a result of my brief stint in adolescent pyromania. After I nearly lit my room ablaze while setting bank statements on fire, I realized that I wasn't really cut out for the casual creation of conflagrations.

Three balls and a CD-Rom labelled Juggling 101. This has been in my junk drawer for the better part of six years. It was a Christmas gift that I had at first attempted to use, then upon recognizing my apalling lack of dexterity, abandoned. I still feel guilty about never really pursuing that skill set, and to this day, I can't juggle to save my life.

Small fan, square shaped, broken. Bequeathed to me during a particularly humid summer, the fan quickly proved to be delapidated, with the wire apparently connected by wax and duct tape. In its more finicky moods, it required more effort than the fan could compensate for just to generate a soft breeze. As the weather grew cooler, the fan entered my junk drawer and hasn't left since.

iPod box containing the following: An assurance that I'll only be fifteen once, a shark tooth, what I think are a Mongolian yen and two German francs, a silver chain, a rechargable battery that later turned out not to be rechargable, and eight flat bolts, of whose origins I am unaware.

Japanese pronunciation guide: I had bought this several months prior to my visit to Japan, but despite the advance oppurtunity for linguistic study, my laziness prevented anything of value from being learned. All I can recall now is the phrase "Toki doki mashurumus oyarimas" which translates roughly to "I smoke mushrooms occassionally." For some reason, when I was ten I thought that this was the pinnacle of comedy, and I'm still strangely amused by the recitation of that phrase.

The Science of Harry Potter: An unsolicited addition to my library, this was given to me by my godmother for my birthday. I remember the awkwardness resulting from my assertion that the present could not be a book due to its rounded edges, something I was happy about as at the time I was of the opinion that they made for bad gifts. I was forced into a Reaganesque shift in policy when I realized that it was indeed a book. A book in which the author claims that teleportation is possible with a purple-haired clone, and that the fictitious animals of Harry Potter are in fact dinosaurs. I don't think I need to explain why this is in my junk drawer...

There are other things, other random objects of charming uselessness, collectively forming a delegation of junk. Every one of these things has a story. That's why they're still in my junk drawer.

The Corporation #2: Breakneck

My name is G.L. Devlin. While I delight in telling people my initials stand for greased lighning, the unfortunate reality is that it stands for Gerard Lionel. I was disappointed when I found out too. I was born immediately outside the quarantine zone of the Former British Empire, in a derelict Irish shantytown. The streets were a cobwebbed tapestry of ashphalt, and the alleys were sepulchral veins which led directly to the heart of the city. It was there that I practiced my craft. My parents, Sean and Veronique were thieves by trade, and I was inducted into this criminal lifestyle at the tender age of eight. I was immediately adept at pickpocketing, and quickly mastered major cons. I would pretend to be an orphan from the infected zone, garnering sympathy from the blissfully ignorant affluent. While this was a simple grift, I took pride in it. It was when I was thirteen that my...abilities first manifested. At this point I had graduated to minor bank robbery, and during the comission of just such an act, my getaway left me three miles inside the Empire. I was bewildered by my surroundings, unsure of how I had come to them, but I knew that it was no place to be. The plaguehounds were abound, and their eyes glowed a ferocious red in the perpetual night. I began to run in terror, and within seconds, I was back at the bank. Unfortunately for me, so were ten armed guards, anxiously anticipating my return. Legs aching brutally, I wearily resigned myself to police custody. It was at the holding cell that I was approached by the Corporation. One of their representatives spoke to me about the potential benefits of membership; wealth, understaning of my powers and general infamy were discussed. I concede that I was unhealthily narcissicistic at that age. Actually...I still am. When the discussion was concluded, I thought nothing of my parents. After all, they had raised me to be a sociopath, and in that respect, they were successful parents. That day marked the first in the Corporation's employ. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. They christened me Breakneck.

She

She is a wildflower, blooming from a landmine
A Summer night on the precipice of mankind
Words are on my tongue, taken captive by my cowardice
Her radiance glows, while my inaction leaves me powerless

She is the guarded hope, that fleeting one percent
I'm the other ninety-nine, that gnawing doubt is subsequent
The ticking seconds are a treasure to be taken granted
The tides have turned and now the crashing waves have left me stranded

She is the Autumn moon, there is fire in her eyes
And to tell the truth, I'm just a liar in disguise
She is a solar flare, when I warrant half a glance
The rest is an eclipse, and I'd tell her if I had the chance

The Night

Panorama of the darkened skyline
Lit by the gentle radiance of the moon
Stars glint mischievously, perforating the blank obsidian of the night
Massed, as if for a revolution

Rude Awakenings

Zatarro the Magnificent was monumentally inebriated. Indubitably intoxicated. In other words, he was undeniably drunk. He lay on a dusty calico tapestry, unsure of his surroundings. He was resplendent in a tattered satin waistcoat, colored alternately in the vibrant scarlet of an eclipsed moon and the dark ebony of a summer midnight. The hues were, however, dimmed by a light coating of faintly aromatic ash. As the gaunt magician struggled to grasp the faint stream of consciousness whirling in his mind, he merely collapsed into a deep slumber.

Upon a rude awakening prompted by the unwelcome intrusion of sunlight through grimy windows, the illusionist grew increasingly concerned; the room he had woken in was not his own. The room was defined by its antediluvian tone, harbouring floral wallpaper, brass ornaments and portraits of Queen Victoria. His attempts to move were futile, reminiscent of a broken marionette, with its invisible puppeteer cursing at its tangled strings. Managing to stand, he was soon struck by the sheer gravity of his predicament.

"Oh God." he moaned, massaging his temples frantically. A look out the sooty windows revealed horse-drawn carriages cantering over cobblestones under the tangerine glow of gaslights. "FUCK!" he bellowed in enraged dismay. The walls, resplendent in their floral embellishment and dead monarchy trembled at the outburst. Exiting the room, he descended a flight of rickety wooden stairs, coming to an ornate door. He stumbled into the night, breaking free from the brick facade of the tenement he had woken in. He mentally retraced a series of events in his mind with the fervent conviction of a paranoid schizophrenic.

Memories of a disastrous performance at a senior's centre in which a keen-eyed octogenarian had exposed the fraudulence of his craft flooded his mind. So too did memories of his subsequent tour of various liquor stores. When he had returned to his apartment, it was in a state of liquid determination. He had found a tome, bound in black leather, stamped in fool's gold. This book had been abandoned since his ill-fated dabblings in "real" magic, but now he dusted its wrinkled cover, opened it, and begun to drunkenly leap over the hurdles of its ornate scripture.

With the pagan sacrifice of his sobriety and a copious ammount of burnt rosemary, he had miraculously summoned a Daemon Prince of the Third Realm. With slurred incantations, he bade the demon grant him legitimate magical powers, no, profound mystical abilities. He should have known better; demons are not to be trusted, forcefully subjugated, or fucked with in any other manner. So, when he woke to an evaporating sense of satisfaction and the sound of hooves striking stone, he was not surprised. He was merely confused, and now, even this was beginning to make sense.

In this day, made archaic within even a century, the mere contents of his pockets were Godly. The technological contraptions housed within the confines of his dapper regalia would outshine any contemporary illusionist. There was nothing he couldn't do. Grinning now, manically, previous comparisons of marionette and schizophrenic still wholly applicable, he walked to a nearby corner. It was occupied by a pale lady, who adorned a pale corset, altogether ghostly in the pale moonlight. "Evening ma'am." said Jack Zatarro, lascivious grin lurking at the furled corners of his mouth. She only smiled back...

Where The World Began

My world began with the marriage of frost and harmony. Winter's chill and melody's warmth. It began during the early hours of Christmas morning five years ago, in the domestic comfort of my living room. While snowflakes cascaded like fallen angels outside our frosted windowpanes, my family and I huddled together like refugees from the ferocious elements. We had, or so I thought, concluded the exchange of gifts and gratitude, leaving disheveled tatters of wrapping paper strewn across the floor. While I was certainly pleased by my influx in worldly possessions, my curiosity had been piqued by certain accessories I had received for the electric guitar. This would have made much more sense had such an item actually been in my possession. When confronted with my inquisition, my parents confessed to having heard rustling in my father's office the evening previous. Upon inspection, it was revealed that "Santa" had deposited a yellow Mexican Stratocaster copy behind my father's desk. In the fury of winter, the Strat was sunshine. That yellow Mexican Stratocaster was sunshine itself. With an imploring tone, I managed to persuade my parents that it wasn't, as they persisted in believing, too early on Christmas morning for rock'n'roll. Snap. My patch chord made loving contact with the guitar's socket. Buzz. The static hum of feedback waiting to be released from the pocket-sized amp grew in a compelling crescendo and...Crash! Strumming a solitary power chord, windmilling with an ecstatic triumph, I felt like Hendrix at Monterey. As I clumsily punched out the riff to Smoke on the Water, I was Blackmore, Live in Japan. The falling snow was a captive audience, thunderclaps my rapturous applause. As I picked out distorted melodies, strumming mindlessly on fuzzed-out chords, my parents looked on, bemusedly resigned to the sacrifice of their quiet morning. Even at the end of that day, that amazing day of falling snow and an oasis of noise, as I fell asleep with a ray of sunshine in my arms, I had ensured that it would be anything but a silent night.

Colder Air

In which I shamelessly swaggerjack H.P. Lovecraft...

"Our separation need not be final." The words were emblazoned in exotic Arabic script on the azure banner strung loosely in front of the newly christened cryogenic center. Gold letters spelling Havenfield Institute for Cryogenic Studies glinted mischievously in the Autumn light. Rusted leaves fell lazily from their oaken perches, drifting casually through a gentle descent. It was at this facility that a small army of dedicated staff were attempting to revolutionize the state of medicine with this concept: post-mortem recovery. The centre's opening was portrayed by the amassed media as a joyous occassion, and the sight of beaming administrators and swarming balloons did little to detract from the jubilant facade. However, upon even basic scrutiny, it became apparent that the unanimous sentiment of the crowd was one of desperation. The bereaved had arrived, recently deceased loved ones gingerly toted upon broad shoulders, or clutched in groups reminiscent of funereal processions. Luxury sports cars and minivans were utilized as makeshift hearses, with laminate and linen serving as surrogate caskets. This collection of the desperate massed at the Havenfield gates, tearfully depositing grandparents, children, husbands and wives into the waiting arms of dutiful clinicians, garbed in celebratory conical hats, an anachronistic display intended to inspire festivity. Clowns at a funeral. This continued for hours, until the facility closed it's iron wrought gates and the last grieving spouse was turned away, tears dried by the setting sun. The rusted leaves continued to stumble from their precipice, flailing into the cold embrace of the ground below.

From that point, little changed for several months. The weather grew harsh as researchers attempted to stimulate the cognitive functions of the specimen they operated upon. They were met with frequent failure, and perpetual opposition from various hardline religious factions. They had at one point believed to have encountered a serendipitous discovery, but their exuberance was quelled by the subsequent realization of clerical error. So little changed. The weather appeared to be on a continual spiral of increasing severity. Perhaps this tempest was God expressing His displeasure with their transgressions. It has been argued that subsequent events were the same.

The breakthrough occured in the waning days of December, as the year diminished into it's successor. Returning from an decadent holiday at his lake home, one of the lead researchers
had made an incredible discovery, one that firmly defied medical logic. While the scientist bemoaned his depravation from the opulent surroundings that had defined his holidays, Dr. Marvin McCody paused in shock. He looked at the computer screen in skeptical dismay: the dead had begun to exhibit activity in their cerebral cortex. What was even more spectacular was the coordinated nature of this phenomenon. All of the deceased interned in the sepulchral halls of the institute were exhibiting the same functions simultaneously. McCody managed to regain a tenative composure, and, with the maximum of possible grace, approached his supervisor with this revelatory information. Greg Morris was a prudent man, and one with a keen interest in politics. It was due to this that he expressed trepidation at the idea of making their progress public, especially wary of media reaction. He told Marvin to remain discreet until they could isolate the origin of this change in the dead's mindstate. It was eventually agreed by both that this would be the appropriate course of action. Outside, the night sky shrouded barren trees, gnarled sinews of oak graping at a hollow moon.

Weeks faded into months, with countless hours of research unable to discern the root of the prior phenomenon. The deceased remained in essentially comatose states, still exhibiting a concerning unison of brainwaves. However, time began to distance the present from the incident, and thus, despite a constant effort, no light was shed upon the "awakening" and the general public was unaware of its occurrence. The spring ascended to the heat and freedom of a glorious summer, which in turned engaged in the seasonal diminuendo to a dismal Autumn.

Strange things began to happen then. Families of passed loved ones received embossed cards courtesy of the institute, claiming alternately that their friends or relatives were alive and well and would see them by the holidays. This obviously generated a media fervor, with the Institute steadfastly denying the release of any such paraphanelia. However, this denial appeared additionally conspicuous in light of the discovery that three corpses were no longer in the stasis chambers that they had been relegated to a year prior. As days grew shorter, people reported experiencing phone calls, of little substance save for disjointed laughter on the other end. These were initially dismissed as practical jokes devoid of humour, but their abrupt and geographically isolated nature seemed to make indications to the contrary.

It was the final week of November when Alex Moss walked into his tidy suburban domicile to encounter his deceased wife shivering in front of a roaring fire, icy fingers clasped upon a glass of vintage Merlot they had been saving for the celebration of their anniversary. It had been a month prior to that milestone when she'd lost her struggle with breast cancer. But now she sat before him, trembling from an intangible cold. "Cheers." she saluted weakly, a tired smile spreading across her lips before fading into her pale features. Alex was overwhelmed, a potent cocktail of grief, joy, and a guilty disgust subjugating his motor functions. When he finally accumulated the courage to embrace his wife, it was still a tenative gesture, an unsteady display of an affection that had died with her. "What does it feel like?" he aked cautiously, unsure of his true desire to know the answer. She brought her pallid lips to his ear and whispered that it was cold. That she neede his warmth. Her motions were seductive, enticing, so much so that he may not have noticed the loss of sensation in his limbs. But by the time the paralysis reached his chest, he could hear her remark bitterly "It's fucking cold. What did you expect?"

By December, the civic center had been evacuated, military barricades, attempting to contain whatever was making people disappear, whatever made them turn up their heat to incendiary levels, and shiver without any palpable feeling of cold. The Havenfield Institute for Cryogenic Studies was now a derelict institute, delapidated and abandoned. Every last containment chamber was empty, its occupants absent in the winter nights. A plaque decrying the superfluity of separation and mortal departure had acquired an ironic coating of rust. And in the pale light of a smirking December moon, trees bereft of their bronzed tenants raised their branches in a fearful exultation to the night sky, which replied with the caress of a cold breeze.

The Corporation #1: SpawnCom

My name is Amadeus Yoshida. Pay close attention to what I say, because I will repeat none of it. I was cultured to despise redundancy, and have maintained that trait to this very day. Despite the unfortunate events that transpired between myself and my surrogate family, I retain the conditioning of my childhood, and this has served to my advantage. I was told that my birth took place in the rubble of New Tokyo, though given the deceptions I've experienced, nothing can be perceived as absolute. For the sake of simplicity, we will assume that this is the truth. I was told that I remained in the sheltered ruins of that former metropolis for the initial three years of my life. How I survived in the dangerous shadows of abandoned monoliths is as much a mystery to my current benefactors as it is to me. Eventually, during the Amerxican colonization of a conquered territory adjacent to the necropolis of my birth, I was discovered by contracted pseudomilitary tomb raiders. While they ransacked the remnants of a collapsed church, my infant self watched, perplexed by the theft. Once again, I do not recall these events, but I am told that my abilities manifested themselves at this point, and from the dark behind a jagged pane of stained glass, I began to tremble with a sudden surge of violent energy. My body exploded into a pyroclastic burst of Biblical proportions, which in retrospect seems fitting given the setting. The one bandit who survived was able to stagger back to the military outpost in Koreatown. I was docile when a band of mercenaries came to the site of my combustion. It must have been so surreal to observe a smiling toddler humming peacefully in the ashes of holy ground. I was lifted gingerly by the bravest individual there, who proceeded to transport me to a secured cell, one that would adequately contain my pyrokinesis. It was this man who would later act as a father to me. And it was this day upon which I was inducted (not consentingly, though not forcibly either) into the Corporation. And it was within this entity, that my future adventures would take place.

The Rain

The rain is a jazz musician
When it taps out a gentle syncopation
The percussion of descent
Is delivered arhythmically
But the rain is also a giving lover
When it cascades to the pavement
Lunging into a lasting embrace
With amorous urgency
The rain is God crying
Tears shed alternately for the beauty
And the depravity
Of his final creations
The rain caresses the fertile ground
Nourishes with a maternal concern
And it devastates
With the intensity of paternal rage
And sometimes
The rain is water that falls from the sky

Fragile Things

Yggdrasil mourns the passing of the world
The Ragnarok beast bears the gem of society
The world is a crown left for sheltered deities
In their inebriation; drunk on power
There are skeletons that climb up and down the coast
Facades of the past rusting in decadence
And there are vultures with international wingspans
Observing the world with myopic disdain
Their eyes purely crafted from stained glass
The carapace is beginning to diminish, and no man desires blame
Fiction is composed
Words are purchased
Minds are fed
With only the sweet nothings of meaningless lexicons
In the silence of deafening noise, these whispered names of former glory
Are all that can be heard
Can be seen
Can be felt
For all these whispers in the night
Do you wait for fragile things?