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The Callers - 6

As she raced towards the top, she thought nothing of Bason-Itiosh, her home. It was now just a memory she had taught to her children, which would become part of the Bason-Bakiti.

In those first few days after her arrival, expeditions to her home forest had found it as she described; there was an irregular but tremendous strip of land within which there was sickness, death, or the dying. Without a clear cause (or pattern), the contagion spread; new pockets of it appeared and disappeared in other parts of the area. When it began to appear in the Bason-Bakiti forest, they had emigrated very quickly.

How long had it been, since then?

Decades, perhaps; she didn't know how many. In her current, cloudy state of mind, she really didn't care: the past was a pleasant blur, a vague feeling of contentment about a job she didn't remember doing, but knew she had done well. All that mattered was this, her final journey.

She knew the way. The properties of the place were always the same; an isolated, tremendous height. After she had moved with the Bason-Bakiti to this forest, she had discovered this tree towering defiantly on the edge of a cliff, and claimed it; after she found it, she had visited it every day for a year, until she could find her way to it in her sleep. But she had never climbed the tree until this day.

She climbed as quickly as she could. The wind whipped past, resisting her movements which, though still graceful and powerful, were much slower than they had once been. How impatient she felt! She wanted to see it, to reach the top, now. Her six limbs, moving in practiced unison, now flailed impatiently at the bark as she climbed. She must get to the top!

She had known with some certainty it was to be today. Still groggy, she had begun her journey towards the tree before First Dawn. She didn't tell anyone; no one spoke of such things. By Second Dawn, the compulsion had taken a hold of her: nothing in the world seemed as important as getting to the top of the tree.

This was a natural compulsion. All Bason felt the call at the end of their lives. She was content: life had been full and interesting, and she couldn't possibly imagine it any other way; wouldn't want it any other way.

The branches were closer together now. She used as many of them as she could to propel herself higher, faster, the until she was as close to the top as she could get. Then she raced down a branch that extended over the cliff.

The rocky valley spread out below her. She didn't hesitate, and hurled herself headfirst into the cliff.

From land we rise, she thought, as she fell. To land, we fall. This is the way of Bason.

She felt euphoric, at peace: as the ground rushed upwards, her eyes drifted shut.

#The Callers

The Callers - 5

She was a Caller; the oldest.

Her peers -- those with whom she had learned the way of Calling -- had long since returned to Yunal. But she and the one who now stood before her had chosen differently.

Her companion was also ancient, although barely half her age. He also walked in Unity; she had felt his approach and begun discussing with him a day before his physical arrival.

"Something outside Yunal brings death at the point of contact. The death zone is tremendous," the male Caller said, "And yet, the death is slow; the effects will not truly be visible for some time."

"Yunal neither seeks nor wants," said the elder Caller.

"But Yun desires life."

The elder sighed. At least, it could have been a sigh; it might have also been a soft breeze swishing through the foliage above. She had stood here, in the middle of a sacred forest, for centuries; to all appearances, she was just a slightly odd tree in a forest of slightly odd trees.

"Yunal is the All-thing," Yun recited, through the eldest, "The universe, and all within it. There is nothing outside Yunal."

"And yet," the male said slowly, "It appears that is no longer true."

The eldest gave a silent assent.

She, the eldest Caller had not disengaged from Unity for most of her life. As the forest she grew in had spread, her awareness had expanded with it; when the forest shrank, her awareness did not. Over the course of centuries, her Yun had grown to cover of a tremendous area.

And most life within that area -- including her tree-self, she knew -- would die from the contamination within a few decades.

The Yun's desire for self-preservation overrode hers, and in any case, she wasn't alarmed: it was in the Yun's interest to have a rich ecology, so any solution would, naturally, include her tree-self, which she had no particular desire to preserve anyway.

"What now?" the male asked.

"Madness comes to whomever Calls Yunal alone," the eldest recited again. "Find every Caller. We must talk to Yunal."

#The Callers

The Callers - 4

She was terrified, and lost.

No, not lost, because she didn't have a specific destination. Her surroundings were unfamiliar and disconcerting: there was an implied order in the arrangement of the trees back home, which was clearly missing here. She knew that forests grew with the same wild abandon wherever they took root, but still told herself that home put this forest to shame.

But "home" was no more. Everyone she knew was dead or, she desperately hoped, en route to warn other Bason tribes, like she was. It would be a miracle if they ever saw each other again.

Long ago, in a time with few settlements and many, many existential threats, the Bason -- ancestors of her people -- agreed that if one settlement was routed by a threat, each of its surviving inhabitants would fan out and warn all other settlements in their exit path. Fleeing individuals were welcome to settle at any other encampment they found. This was the twin-birth of Bason hospitality, and a custom they interchangeably called Flight or Escape.

Things had calmed down a great deal since the Flight tradition was introduced. She realized somewhat ruefully that, before her journey began two days ago, no Bason had invoked the tradition in centuries.

Bason territory wasn't always recognizable as such, unless one knew where to look.

With some practice, an earthbound traveler might spot the occasional unobtrusive symbol on (or near) a tree; no more. But she was Bason, and knew exactly where to look. It wasn't long before she found the name of the Bason tribe that lived here and, shortly afterwards, directions to their common area.

As far as the Bason-Bakiti were concerned, an impudent stranger had just utterly ruined their Second Dawn ritual. No emergency in Yunal could warrant such rudeness. Oh yes, she was Bason, and must immediately be treated with full Bason hospitality -- and sure, she seemed to have exceptional climbing arms -- but, damn it, they needed to talk about her rudeness.

When all available Bason had answered the call to assemble, and silence had fallen on the group, a hearing began.

"You."

It was a question, directed at the stranger, perched in their midst. She recognized the tone: to a non-Bason, it meant a death sentence. To a Bason, it usually meant the same.

"Bason-Itiosh," she replied. "I have traveled just over two days."

The Bason-Itiosh were known to a few, and some began to murmur that her home was about three days' travel away. Some observed the stranger's arms with renewed admiration.

"You may now run with the Bason-Bakiti," said her interrogator, formally welcoming her to the tribe. "But why have you comehere now?"

"I am an emissary in flight," she replied.

A silence descended on the gathering.

#The Callers

The Callers - 3

Listen. We are Calling.

He was a Caller, the oldest known. From his vantage point, he could see the stars rising in the west. Below and around him, the forest Yun was shifting to its evening routine. He acknowledged each nocturnal life-form that winked into consciousness, and kept his eyes on the horizon. There was a sizeable anomaly somewhere out there, unlike anything he had ever encountered. And, whatever it was, it wasn't giving away any visual cues.

Listen. We are frightened.

The tip of The Fire-staff, a constellation of four diagonally-aligned stars, was rising in the northwest sky. Far below him, the animals of the forest seemed fine, but nervous: they too, were aware that something was wrong.

Listen. We are dying.

He was a Caller, the oldest known.

Known, because there was one older than he: both that fact, and the Caller's identity, were known only to him. In their late years, Callers travel to a final resting place of their choosing: neither he nor the Eldest had bothered to choose.

As he pondered the Yun's message, he was grateful that he knew where to begin.

#The Callers

The Callers - 2

Yunal is the All-thing; the universe, and all within it.

Yunal never seeks. Yunal never wants.

We are Yun in Yunal, a semi-independent sub-region.

At her query, the Yun explained that "semi-independent sub-region" was like calling any group of trees a "sub-region" of a forest. Its words formed in her mind, as if she was remembering a conversation that took place at this very spot. She wasn't alarmed; on the contrary, she had never been more curious.

A brief pause, then a question:

Do you wish Unity?

She didn't know what that meant, but said yes anyway.

The Yun began by describing its physical boundaries, which ran roughly from the stream in the west to equidistant points in the south, east, and north. The boundaries were as nebulous as the Yun itself: had she stood three feet to the left, she would be speaking to a slightly "different" Yun.

Next, the Yun described its history, from the formation of the planet to the present moment. It started off somewhat like, "Wide-float-crash-float-hot-wet-cold-crash-hot-hot-cold--" and then grew more complex as the planet gained structure and life began to evolve in the area.

She had not known how old her world was.

This Yun held many, many memories of others like her, who had passed through the area. Traces of their memories lingered in the Yun; she didn't know whether they were now alive or dead. She did know, however, that they had all been much, much older, and far more experienced in communicating with Yun than she was.

Despite the breadth of time it covered, the Yun's story was quickly told. Upon its conclusion, her mind partially merged with the Yun, and became aware of all things -- rocks, plants, puddles, grass -- within the Yun, which was part of a larger region, which was part of the planet... and ever higher. As the systems scaled up, her comprehension of them dwindled significantly; she was content with the parts she understood.

We are Yun in Yunal, a semi-independent sub-region, she/they sighed in unison.

Then "she" felt something else.

It began like a nagging thought in a recess of their mind. When she focused on it, the thought grew into a sensation, then the sensation grew unpleasant. Flora and fauna were dying slowly, somewhere upstream of the Yun. The cycle of life had always ensured a steady trickle of dead or decomposing matter in the stream but, somewhere within the last five hundred years, there had been periods where the rate of death seemed to wax and wane. It wasn't associated with the usual geological events; it seemed to be a contamination.

Her panic, like the wail of a frightened child, seeped into the Yun's vast, slow thoughts, and was swallowed by it. The Yun, too, was concerned -- in a more ponderous, abstract way.

Yunal is the All-thing; the universe, and all within it. The thought formed compulsively, like a familiar mantra to ward off evil. She realized the Yun was trying to calm her, even though she/they knew something else:

The source of the contaminant was not from Yunal.

#The Callers

The Callers - pt 1

Wind, around me.

With her eyes still closed, she moved her attention to the ground. It was a slow, deliberate movement; her awareness traveled like a pinprick of light, gradually making its way down from the top of her head to her pelvis, where it would separate into two distinct-and-same pinpricks, continuing its journey down her legs, and into the ground.

She inhaled the rich summer air again: her toes found warm soil between blades of grass and curled into it.

Stone, below me.

Her mind drifted, briefly, to her past. She found nothing: only, as there had always been, a few elements dancing together to make a complex, beautiful world. There were no people, no places, no names -- just combined elements.

Oh sure, some of those combined elements were relatives and fellow tribe members who hadn't understand her mute cheerfulness. And, it's true, they had banished her because of it. (Well, that, and how she would stare at everything with rapturous delight. For hours.)

A stream burbled, somewhere to her west. She contemplated its source, its destination, and her meeting it here, then acknowledged it.

Water, near me.

They hadn't understood.

She reveled in simplicity, and often sought and named elements like this. Today, she would find and name as many as she could. With her eyes still closed, she sought the sun's warmth with her forehead, and found it.

Fire, above me.

She allowed her awareness to spread in a wide circle around her, rippling outwards across the grass. She soaked in every indication and source of life in the area, acknowledging each as she found it.

Life, around me-

She was interrupted.

#The Callers

It was a stereotypically grim room,

Dark, in spite of the best efforts of the lone, jaundiced lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. There was something surly about its weak light, as if it resented the darkness that choked it.

He couldn't be sure whether it had always been on, or if it had flickered on as he gained consciousness.

As a neat complement to its unsettling not-this-nor-that ambiance, the room was mostly unfurnished. The exceptions to this were the severely uncomfortable wooden chair on which he sat -- thankfully, unbound -- and a plain wooden table. Like the lightbulb, the chair he sat on, and indeed himself, the table seemed reluctant to be here.

He sympathized with them.

The last thing he remembered was leaving work, getting into his car, and beginning the drive home, like he had done every business day for the last five - six? no, five, but almost six - years now. Then, with the abruptness of an interrupted dream, he had awoken here.

A sharp rattling tore into his thoughts; his panic sent him crashing backwards over the chair.

An incoming text message had buzzed a phone, which had apparently been sitting there the entire time, precariously close to the edge of the table. Unlike the furniture and the lightbulb, the phone seemed perfectly at home here. But it wasn't his phone; he usually left that in the cupholder. And, right now, he had no idea where he was, much less where his car was.

He suddenly realized he hadn't tried to escape. With a generous helping of alarm, as well as the aid of the reluctant lightbulb, he searched for an exit.

A large metal door soon presented itself.

It had quarter-coin-sized rivets running vertically down its side, and much evidence to show its age and use. Naturally, there was no evidence of a handle, or controls. Of course.

He turned to the phone. It lay where he had first seen it, on the edge of the table. He picked it up, eyeing the '1 new text message' notification with distrust. Knowing he had no choice, he opened it.

There was once sentence.

"Convince me you are a robot. You have 30 minutes."

And suddenly I found myself wondering...

Does the Vatican have weapons of Mass destruction?

The Safe - Pt 2

Read first: The Safe - Pt 1

The voice blithely ignored the question, and proceeded instead to talk about the Tesseract™.

The Tesseract™, the voice explained, was created by a company called Hypernova. It began decades ago as Magma, an infamous private military contracting firm. In the economic boom that followed the creation of a new global economy in the early 2000's, Magma's clientele and notoriety waned. The company faded from significance, quietly re-branded for a few years, and returned to the spotlight with the creation of the Tesseract™ Safe.

The Tesseract™ is highly customized for every client. It is created with a "four dimensional" lock, which only means that the access code works on certain dates, at certain intervals ("every other Wednesday"), or dates based on an algorithm. The particular date is programmed into the safe's microchip when it is created, and is known only to the client who purchases it.

Or, as was frequently the case, a group of clients. Wealthy as many corporations had become, getting a Tesseract™ was still prohibitively expensive.

"Getting one is something of a status symbol," the voice chuckled. "In some circles, anyway."

"Why are you telling me this?" Brian asked.

"Because we want you to break into a Tesseract," the voice replied.

***

The Safe

"I could just unplug the computer," Brian said. Inches from his keyboard, his phone began to buzz.

"Of course you could," the voice laughed. "We thought of that."

Brian's eye flicked to the phone -- he didn't recognize the number -- and back to his screen. The person on the other end still wasn't visible, because their camera was turned off, but Brian knew he was still there.

"Incoming call?" the voice asked. Brian's throat went dry.

"You should probably take that," the voice coaxed. "Go ahead, Brian."

"Who are you?!"

"Pick. Up. The. Phone. Brian."

His hands trembling, Brian picked up the phone. It tumbled between his fingers and slipped below the desk; he crashed to the ground after it. In a rush of inspiration, he lunged under his desk and yanked all cables from the outlet. The whirring of his CPU fan died.

Nearby, his phone hummed.

Brian picked it up.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but I need to call the police right now; I'll call you ba--"

"Stay down, Brian."

There was an explosion of sound above him, and the sharp thud of something hitting the couch in front of him. Fragments of his monitor clattered around on his desk and, finding no room, rained down before Brian's horrified eyes.

"Now that we have your attention," said the voice on the other end. It was also distorted, like the one he had just encountered while surfing (what was supposed to be) an anonymous chat site. However, this one seemed more subtly feminine than the first. .

"Sniper. Ours, this time."

"--That was an apology?!" was all Brian could think to say, when he had regained enough composure to speak.

"Would an apology actually change the way you feel right now?"

"...no," Brian admitted. He knew now to take these people seriously.

"Who are you?" Brian asked again.

***

Continue: Pt 2

The Colossus and the Wizard

My sister and I came up with this tale: it is incomplete. We will need your help to continue it: how you will do so will become clear as you proceed.

_________________________________________________________

"The Rock of Gibraltar

"is nowhere near as sharp as

The Sword of Damocles."

This had just been asserted by

The Wizard of Oz,

during a heated conversation with his friend,

The Colossus of Rhodes.

They stood on

The bright side of the moon,

which is not as round as

The Wheel of Fortune.

The latter, sadly, is not as salubrious as

The Circle of Life.

"The treaty of Versailles,"

scoffed the Wizard, "was a far more interesting read than

"The Epic of Gilgamesh,

"recounted to me on my last visit to

"The Pyramids of Egypt."

"Ah, I remember those. Too bad I didn't get to see

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon

in those days," sighed the Colossus.

"The Statue of Liberty

is taller than you," whispered

The Voice of Reason

who had recently taken to some rather unreasonable behavior.

"The Sound of Music

"is sweeter than

"The kindness of strangers,"

the Colossus continued, ignoring her.

"The long arm of the law,"

the Wizard agreed, "Clutches

"The short end of the stick,

"although, lacking eyes, it still could not hit

"The broad side of a barn."

The speakers adjourned to

The Garden of Eden,

where they would watch showings of

The curious tale of Benjamin Button

until

The end of time..

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

RULES:

1. Your verse follows this pattern:

The [something] of [something]

Regular sentence

---

That's it.

You can patch it together however you like, but your [something] of [something] must be easily recognizable. Sub-items (e.g. "The Ring of Power") do not count, and you cannot rearrange a word (e.g. "The Razor of Ockham") to fit.

Did we miss anything?

#treaty of versailles #hanging gardens #benjamin button #wizard of oz #colossus of rhodes #a curious tale

Crushed

My brows furrow; eyes quickly scan the jumble of data before me. I move my mouse.

"Sweet," a male voice reassures me.

I should be working. There are tasks to do, clients to satisfy; even personal projects to complete.

My mouse moves towards the top-right of the screen before me, and stops. There! Another bauble. I swap its position with yet another, and a glorious cascade of events follows.

"Delicious," the male voice whispers again, almost conspiratorially.

...I should be working.

#candycrush

A short story.

Like every other Tuesday, Melissa found her commute stuck behind the garbage truck. She filled the sound-proof cabin of her car with a steady stream of expletives.

Brian was looking forward to the end of the route. He had taken half the day off to rehearse proposing to his girlfriend; he planned to ask her that evening, when she got home. As the truck slowed to a crawl, he hopped -- almost skipped-- off it, and walked up to the garbage cans nearby.

"That! Does it!" Melissa cried, digging fiercely into her bag, which lay on the front passenger seat. The butt of a small handgun dug into her palm; she seized it.

Lucas enjoyed his route. He had been on it for years: the neighborhood was always quiet, and the pick-ups were quick because his partner, Brian, was efficient. "While Brian gets the bags," he thought, "I'll pull over and let the truck idle for a bit; it sounds weird today."

The truck, Melissa noted, was finally getting out of her way. The gun, she didn't realize, was still in her hand when she withdrew it from her bag.

***

#short story

The Meaning Of Jack

There were a few personalities I considered as defining the entirety of my character: the warrior, the scientist, the monk, and the philosopher. The latter two, in retrospect, could be considered one and the same, since the monk I imagined myself to be was less a religious symbol than a brooding figure.

As I sit penning these words, I recall the paths that brought me here, and the periods of my life during which I closely associated with one or other of the aforementioned roles.

Once I was the brooding philosopher, contemplating what happens after we die, and spawning theories of what preceded our existence. At another time, I was a monk, who learned to meditate in areas as noisy as a crowded airport; who could stare at a dot on a wall, and with still mind, forget everything else for a time. In yet another period, I became the scientist, acknowledging those regions where empirical knowledge fell short, but otherwise refusing to believe any but that which could be proven and comprehended.

The only role I had difficulty entering was that of the warrior. It had seemed, for a time, that I was incapable of entering this role; that life itself, nature, providence, or whatever else you would call it, was determined to prevent me from doing so.

And now, that too has changed.

Some time has passed since I identified with any of these roles, but recent events have led me to reconsider them, prominently my exploration of martial arts. I learned some time ago that life is a journey to be experienced. And all worthy journeys come in phases, be they marked by the passage of landmarks or time.

What does this all mean? Nothing. It may all be meaningless jack. Or perhaps, it means everything. I suspect the person with a definitive answer is either the only living being with a definitive answer to "the meaning of life" --

or a fool.

A Symphony Of Jack

Between cubicle walls; amidst ringing phones, irate clients, turbulent thoughts, and a million tasks to complete -- most of them due last week -- a small voice cries out.

This is my life. That's not what the voice says, but this is my life.

Will I spend this flicker, this passing moment, regretting all that transpired before, or desiring the myriad moments that could be occurring in its stead? Or will I claim it boldly, and march forward in the knowledge that life, all life, is transient, and that much more pleasant moments may await in the future that now approaches?

More importantly, will you?

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