Novella: "Faul", Chapters 1 & 2

AUTHORS DEDICATION:

This record – or confession – chronicles events that occurred between 1966 and 1980. It is dedicated to my dearest friend, who never really left the boat.

It is also dedicated to my other dear friend, who was brave enough to confess our sin, even if no one believed him. If I had been as strong a man as he had been, I would have spoken sooner. 

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CHAPTER ONE:  "DON'T PASS ME BY" 

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The following lyrics are from the song Don't Pass Me By*: 

"I listen for your footsteps, Coming up the drive 

Listen for your footsteps, But they don't arrive 

Waiting for your knock dear, On my old front door 

I don't hear it, Does it mean you don't love me any more?" 

* Don't Pass Me By was Ringo Starr's first solo-composition for The Beatles.

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The following occurred during a recording-session on November the 6th, 1966, at approximately two-thirty in the morning*:

Richard Starkey watched, but said nothing – as usual. He hoped that without his participation, the argument would end sooner. 

While Paul McCartney ranted, John Lennon sat in the corner of the recording-booth, staring down into the empty space between his knees. In the three year that Richard had known John, he had seen him do this often. John's last tactic in every argument, Richard thought, was to retreat into that place where no one was able to follow him. 

Richard looked across the recording-room at George Harison, who was sitting beside the piano, scribbling his strange doodle-men** – he called them meanies – down into his note-pad. George had been just as silent through all this as Richard had been, though his disinterest in the argument seemed more genuine. Maybe because George has known them longer, Richard thought. He's used to hearing them fight. 

Paul was still ranting, arms in the air. His guitar swung around his waist by the strap, haphazardly. The neck clashed against a symbol on-top the drum-set. 

Richard grimaced, but still said nothing. His fear was no longer of prolonging the argument, but simply of becoming involved in it. 

There has been more fighting then usual the during this recording-session – the forth-coming album, tentatively titled Smile, had been plagued by everything except – but this time, Paul seemed to be in an extraordinarily violent huff. 

George Martin appeared through the door to the recording-booth. "Can we run through it one more–" 

"No, George, we can't", Paul said. He never looked away from John, who still sat with his head lowered between his legs. 

George Martin*** opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself. The door to the recording-room closed silently behind him. 

"Say something, John!", Paul roared. 

John didn't raise his head. 

"You won't even look at me. You're a fucking child, John." 

"Jesus Christ, let up, Paul", Richard said, finally. He stood from his drummer's-stool. "You've been yelling for a half-hour, John's probably deaf – we all are! Give it up, already." 

Paul flushed with anger, but didn't reply. 

"Okay?", Richard asked, feeling flustered. "Let's just do it again, like Marty said." 

No body moved. After a moment, Richard looked to George to find support, but George didn't offer any. 

"It's because of your mother", Paul said, his voice horse now. "You never grew up after her, did you, John?" 

John looked up. 

"You're just a little boy in-side", Paul said. "Still a bloody child." 

"Fuck you", John said, before lowering his gaze again. 

"Grow up", Paul said, pulling his guitar strap over his head. 

"Where are you going?", Richard asked. 

Paul put his guitar down on-top of the studio's piano, then turned around. "Out. I'll be back in a couple hours." 

"Paul –" 

Paul turned around sharply, then glared at Richard. "What, Ringo?" 

Richard had been ready to ask Paul to stay – beg him, even – but now he stopped short. Instead, he said: "I think you're the child, Paul. Really." 

Then, Paul stormed out of the studio. Richard heard him argue with Marty on his way out, then the slamming of a door. 

John didn't move an inch. 

George stood from his chair, and sighed. "He'll be back, but not tonight. Let's go home." 

- - - 

* Author's personal account of the event.

** The first instance of George's doodles appearing on a Beatle's cover was Revolver, inside Paul McCartney's ear. Hiding the doodle on the cover had been John's idea. Paul protested, but George had been indifferent.

*** Nicknamed Marty by John.

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The following is a message* was left by Richard Starkey at the front-desk of Paul McCartney's hotel, at 4:30 the same morning:

"Recording starts after lunch. Don't stand us up, Paul. Please" 

- - -

* When asked by the author, the bell-hop claimed the message had never been delivered.

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More lyrics from Don't Pass Me By:

"I'm sorry that I doubted you, I was so unfair 

You were in a car crash, And you lost your hair 

You said that you would be late, About an hour or two 

I said that's alright, I'm waiting here, 

Just waiting to hear from you." 

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Paul McCartney's first thought had been to go to Jane's house*. 

The drive would take over an hour. By the time Paul pulled his Austin Martin into her drive-way, it'd be just passed six o'clock in the morning. Jane will be awake by then, Paul thought. He was sure she would be. Jane Asher hadn't sleep-in one single day of her life. Despite this, Paul hoped she might still be in bed when he arrived, bleary-eyed, and dressed in her soft cotton pyjamas. 

He drove with the windows down, no mind for the rain. Hang On Sloopy by The McCoy's bleared through his radio. Paul sang along to only the chorus – screeching "Hang on, Sloopy! Sloppy, hang on!" into the empty night like a banshee – and let the Austin Martin's engine throb the rhythm of the verse's. 

When the song finished, Paul leaned back into his seat, feeling an angry pressure in his chest dissipating. His breaths became long, and deep. For the first time since leaving Abbey Road, Paul wondered if something he had said to John had been wrong. 

The DJ on the radio – a local station, WKR-FM – drawled for a moment, then introduced the next song: We Can Work It Out, by The Beatles. The anger that had spent itself to ash during Hang On Sloopy suddenly rekindled inside Paul's chest, and burned. His knuckles became white around the steering-wheel. 

Paul had written the song for Jane, of course; but now, he couldn't help but think of John. Paul decided then that The Beatles would never work it out again. The finality of the thought had its own exhilaration, which Paul expressed with the gas-pedal. 

He turned a sharp bend in the road, and felt the Austin Martin's tires lose traction briefly, then grip onto the wet pavement again. That's when Paul saw her, standing on the side of the road. She was young, and even though she cowered below her umbrella, Paul could tell she was tall. He pulled over, and reached to open his passenger-door. 

Had he not slowed down after the turn, he might have passed her by. 

He might have lived, the author can't help but add. 

- - -

* When asked by agent "Maxwell" where they thought Paul had been driving to, the remaining three Beatles had answered, unanimously: "There was no where else he would have been going." 

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CHAPTER TWO: "HE DIDN'T NOTICE THAT THE LIGHTS HAD CHANGED"

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The following lyrics are taken from the song A Day In The Life:

"He blew his mind out in a car 

He didn't notice that the lights had changed 

A crowd of people* stood and stared 

They'd seen his face before 

Nobody was really sure 

If he was from the House of Lords**" 

- - - 

* First witness on the scene was Sally Strummer. Before the police arrived, five witness had gathered around the flaming wreck. James Corner was another witness of note. 

** This lyric are often quoted as "from the House of Paul". 

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The following was transcribed by the author from the recording of a phone-interview he conducted with Mrs. Strummer, on November 18th, 1966: 

AUTHOR: Did you see his face, Mrs. Strummer? 

SALLY STRUMMER: Of course I did – we all did! I told you – I think he broke that poor man's hand – 

AUTHOR: Not that man, sorry. I meant the driver. Did you see his face? 

SALLY STRUMMER: I guess – just for a second, before the police arrived. I wish I hadn't, but I thought I could help who ever was in there. 

[Pause] 

AUTHOR: Mrs. Strummer? 

SALLY STRUMMER: Sorry. I'm here. I just can't – 

[Another pause] 

SALLY STRUMMER: I didn't even know there had been a fire – at first. I guess the rain put it out before I saw the wreck. He might have had brown hair. I couldn't tell, there was so much blood. His face wasn't burnt as badly as the woman's was. He still had a mop of hear on-top his head. Looked like a Beatles fan, you know? His head was split right down the middle. Like a slice had been taken out* – 

[Pause] 

SALLY STRUMMER: When the police arrived, we had to stand a ways back. A couple more people showed up, and waited with us for news. Then another car arrived. I think they were police, too – or maybe something more. You know what I mean? 

AUTHOR: I think I do, Mrs. Strummer. 

SALLY STRUMMER: Sally, please. The man I told you about before, you said his name was Max? 

AUTHOR: It's just a nick-name. 

SALLY STRUMMER: He was a horrible man. After one of them wrote all of our names down in his note-pad, Max told us we had to leave. One man in the crowd – we had spoken earlier, his name was James – said he had been driving for hours, looking for his run-away daughter, when he stumbled onto the crash. James told one of Max's men that he wouldn't leave until there was news. I really think Max broke Jame's hand – 

AUTHOR: I wouldn't mention any of this to anyone else, Sally. You're right. Max is a very horrible man. If you don't draw any of his attention, you'll never have to see him again. 

SALLY STRUMMER: He had a hammer. Do you believe that? He put James's hand down flat on the hood of his car, and smashed it. 

AUTHOR: Sally – 

SALLY STRUMMER: I don't remember how many times. Then, we all left. No one tried to help him. No one screamed. We just – left. When I started to drive away, I saw James still lying on the wet grass. I thought I saw Max's men going through his car. I called the police in the morning, and reported it. 

AUTHOR: You shouldn't have done that, Sally. 

SALLY STRUMMER: Before we all ran, I saw their faces – the rest of the crowd. I knew none of them would tell a soul about what had happened. Do you read the paper? 

AUTHOR: Yeah, I – 

SALLY STRUMMER: Read the Westminster Daily Telegraph, November 8th. On page three, there's an article about the crash. It said the white Austin Martin 'hadn't noticed that the lights had changed' – but, there were no lights. They moved the crash, but nearly a half a kilometer. And no one said a word about it– 

AUTHOR: There are very good reasons to say nothing, Sally. 

[Pause] 

AUTHOR: Mrs. Strummer? 

[The sound of a knocking door can be heard on Sally's end of the recording] 

AUTHOR: Are you still there? 

SALLY STRUMMER: Yes, sorry. One moment – 

SALLY STRUMMER: [Not spoken directly into the telephone] I'll be right there! 

[The sound of the phone being put down on the counter can be heard.] 

AUTHOR: Sally!? 

[A long pause.] 

AUTHOR: ...Sally? 

[Click]* 

- - -

* A follow-up interview was attempted, but Mrs. Strummer was unavailable. Her land-lord claimed to have received a call from Mrs. Strummer late in the evening on November 18th, saying she would be traveling to India, and that someone would take care of her place while she was gone. She was never seen again. 

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The following lyrics are taken from the song Maxwell's Silver Hammer:

"But as she's getting ready to go 

A knock comes on the door… 

Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer 

Came down upon her head 

Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer 

Made sure that she was dead." 

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The following is an excerpt from The Westminster Daily Telegraph, dated November 8th:

"…the driver of the Austin Martin, William Sheers, was heavily intoxicated. When he came to the intersection, Mr. Sheer didn't notice that the lights had changed. At 5 a.m., he crashed his Austin Martin into a Volkswagen entering the intersection, killing the driver, James Corner, and his daughter, who had been sitting in the passenger's seat. Martha Corner, Mr. Corner's widow, claims that her husband left their house at 3:30 a.m. that morning, looking for their run-away daughter…"

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Poem: "In The Garden of Gethsemane"

That day, we had walked together, unknowingly, down the path that lead to Gethsemane.

We fell into silence as we passed through the garden; understanding only then with clarity:

that Time will prosecute all love in the end, and that only a fool hopes for his clemency.

On a bench, we stopped and spoke awhile; each sentiment so carelessly clipped by brevity.

Then our time was spent, we knew. Together we slowly neared the end of our path, warily;

where, on the far-side of the garden, it split into two: one path for me, another for Stephanie.

Serialized Fiction: "Before Man Had Been To EC-I", "Part One: Mission-Briefing" (2/2)

Benjamin brought three mugs to the cafeteria table, placed them down in a tight triangle, then sat. Dave reached for his mug, then passed the third mug to John, who sat a little ways down the long-table. 

“Thanks", John said, only looking up from the device in his hands for a moment. 

"Your welcome", Benjamin said, taking the first sip of his second cup of coffee that morning. 

Benjamin loved coffee. He loved cigarettes as-well, but mostly, he loved coffee. 

In the early 2100's, it had become near-impossible to find cigarettes for sale anywhere – even in gas-stations, which had became equally as antique, though for separate and unrelated reasons. Cigarettes hadn't finally been made illegal; all the tobacco plants on Earth hadn't dried-up because of some new, unexplainable virus, and shrivelled away to rot; people had simply stopped smoking. There had been no protests, no fuss; demand just disappeared. If Benjamin were to pull his own pack out of his pocket now, and show it to Dave, he didn’t think Dave wouldn't have the slightest idea what he was looking at. Yet coffee, on the other-hand, had never fallen into obscurity; it was still as ubiquitous as it had ever been. 

Benjamin sipped his coffee again, and remembered how infinitely thankful he was for that fact. 

"Where were you earlier?" John pocketed his device, then scooted down the table toward Ben and Dave. "You were late to the briefing." 

Benjamin decided to test his theory, right now. 

"I went out-side, down the corridor" – Ben motioned to the door-way of the cafeteria – "through the air-locks." 

John opened his mouth to speak, but Dave was quicker: "What the fuck's out there? Beside space." John closed his mouth, then nodded. 

Benjamin reconsidered briefly, then continued: "I was having a smoke." He pulled the pack from his front-pocket, and held it in the air for a moment. "I had a rough sleep last night. Thought I'd go out-side for a cigarette to clear my head before the briefing; then, I lost track of time, I guess." 

John looked at the pack of cigarettes; puzzled, just as Benjamin had theorized. Dave, how-ever, didn't even glance at them. 

"I don't know how you do that", Dave said. "Lose track your-self, I mean." 

John leaned forward, elbows pressed down on the table. "What are those?" 

Benjamin opened his mouth, but again, Dave was quicker: "They are imported from Earth, and sold to nostalgics at space-ports. My Dad used to sell them from his store on EC-I, but they were never very popular. People couldn't seem to figure out what to do with them without instructions." Dave laughed, then spoke directly to Benjamin. "Can I have one?" 

"Sure", Ben said, wishing now that he had been brave enough to test his theory sooner. 

"Wait", John said, still leaning forward. "What do you do with those?" 

Dave stood from the cafeteria table, coffee in hand. "Come with us. I'll show you." 

Benjamin stood. "Just let me re-fill my mug first." 

Dave handed his mug to Ben, said: "mine too", then looked down at John. "Are you coming?" 

- - -

The three men walked out of the air-lock together, and onto the exterior of the TARSAC-VII; twenty-five feet above their heads, completely surrounding the ship like a soap-bubble, was the deflector-shield. Beneath the shield, oxygen and gravity were both strictly maintained. Above it, was chaotic space. 

Benjamin thought that in one of the many science-fiction films he'd seen as a child, a force-field like this would have been made to look electric, blue-tinged – just so the movie’s audience would know it's there. In real-life, the deflector-shield was completely invisible; that had an unsettling effect, Ben thought, of making it seem as if there was really nothing there to protect him from being sucked upward by the vacuum of space, and crushed. 

"You are honestly the only person I've ever seen do that", Dave said. "Except for babies and small children." 

"Sorry". Ben laughed nervously, suddenly aware he had been somewhere else for a moment. "I have an absent mind sometimes." He fished his pack out of his pocket, handed a cigarette to Dave, hesitated, then gave one to John, too. 

"Sure", John said. "Thanks." 

Ben returned the pack, then grabbed his lighter from the same pocket. He lit Dave's cigarette, his own, then passed the lighter to John. 

"Like this", Dave said, demonstrating for John. 

John imitated his motions, unsure of himself. The lighter was clearly a foreign object to him. 

"You'll get the hang of it", Dave said. 

"So, what's this about an expedition?", Ben said. 

Dave took a drag from his cigarette, then he began to brief Benjamin: "A week ago, somewhere in the desert, about fifty miles away from a ghost-town named Khronos, there was a tremor in the planet's surface; fairly slight, no-body on the other-side of the planet felt it, but it was enough to open a crack in the ground nearly a mile wide." Dave took another drag. "The costumer, as you called him – his name is Haymitch – he's the leader of the expedition going under the surface; the expedition we are 'escorting'. He sent probes down the chasm first, of course; they made it two and a half miles down, before they lost their connection to the surface. Dr. Haymitch said some electromagnetic-force down there must have fried them. Hence, a human-expedition." John started to cough. Dave waited a moment for John to stop, then continued: “We're meeting Haymitch on Sector-Seven; because of the electromagnetic activity, we get new equipment. New weapons, too." Dave smiled. 

"Why do they–" 

"–do they need to hire mercenaries for an expedition?" 

"Yeah." That had been Benjamin's question exactly. 

"I don't know. I don't think Chief knows, either; I also don't think he cares – the pay for this job is absurd. But most importantly, I don't think Haymitch even knows why he's hiring mercenaries for what could of just as easily been a perfectly legal scientific expedition." 

“It sounds like Haymitch knows there’s going to be something down there that his team will need protection from, and he doesn’t think we’ll take the job if he tells us what that is”, Benjamin said. "That doesn't worry you, Dave?" 

"Fuck yes, it does." Dave took a last drag from his cigarette, then stomped it out on the haul of the TARSAC. "So does not working." 

Benjamin stomped his cigarette, then turned with Dave toward the air-lock. John followed a short distance behind, now knowingly excluded from the other's conversation. 

Dave leaned in toward Ben, and said: "You know, the rest of us smoke in the engine room; Zenry, Tso, and I." 

Benjamin stopped suddenly. "What?" 

Dave laughed. "I'll tell you one thing that hasn't changed in four-hundred years, Ben: the criminal class still smokes. You'd know that was still true if you spent some time out of your quarters." 

Benjamin felt his cheeks flush. "Really? I didn't know that." 

“Try coming out of your shell a bit, Ben; the crew’s not so bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of your quarters past eight.” 

Benjamin opened his mouth to reply, but John interrupted him: "Look; up there." Ben turned around, then followed John's gaze. 

Hanging directly above them, looming over the TARSAC like a giant, was Jupiter – a name only Benjamin knew her by; and silhouetted against her orange atmosphere, he saw another old God: Mars. 

“Home sweet home”, Dave said, then walked through the air-lock with Benjamin close behind him.

- - -

To be continued...

Poem: "Mixtures"

I'm preying tonight it all won't fall to shambles.

   Three glasses of ice-cubes and Jack Daniels.

      Whiskey-tumbler caked with crushed-up Advils.

We passed cigarettes, then each took two Amyls.

   And swapped sweaty palm-full's of magic capsules.

      I see a Valium- three Excedrin- fuck, even NyQuills.

Chew them, and every bone in our bodies crackles.

Serialized Fiction: "Before Man Had Been To EC-I", "Part One: Mission-Briefing" (1/2)

THEN: 1969 A.D.

A seventeen year-old Benjamin Carter knelt on the shag-carpet in-front of the television-set in such a way his parents hadn't seen their son sit since he had been a small child; Ben had both fists propped under his chin; his mouth was half-open; his eyes were wide, filling with wonder...

"You won't ever forget this moment, Ben”. His father spoke from the sofa behind him. “This is going change the world.” His father's can of Budweiser stood half-full and forgotten on-top of his dinner-tray; his wife's hand was held tightly in both of his, compressed between two belts of white-knuckles.

Benjamin didn't turn around. He only stared forward into the television screen, his eyes still filling-up...

“One small step for man–”, Armstrong announced through the television-speakers. “–and one giant step for man-kind”.

Benjamin never forgot it.

NOW: 2360 A.D.

Benjamin Carter starred out of the port-hole above his bathroom sink, into deep space.

If not for the depth given by the stars, he might have thought the view of the universe before him was a flat panorama, wrapped around the TARSAC-VII's haul like a lamp-shade. He saw no planets, no astroid fields, no swirling celestial phenomena – only a landscape of penetrating emptiness. Pulsing behind those sheets of stars, and the seemingly planar blackness behind them, Benjamin sensed some ephemeral energy – a menacing vibration; expanding, then contracting, sending waves through the universe.

He didn't like space.

Planet-life suited Benjamin much better.

He touched the sensor beside the port-hole, then the glass in-front of him became a mirror; Benjamin saw the face of a three-hundred and seventy-four year-old man reflected back toward him, with no grey-hair or sagging-skin, no wrinkles or deep-furrows.



He began to spread shaving-cream over his unblemished cheeks.


PART ONE: Mission-Briefing

Benjamin dressed, then met Dave in the cafeteria, at the usual time.



Dave was a younger man, and like most of the TARSAC's crew, he had barely passed his hundredth year. Benjamin thought there was something unsettling about those generations born after the technology that promised them eternal-life, to which Dave belonged. These post-Fountain of Youth generations seemed unanchored from the stream of time, Benjamin thought, never concerned with yesterday's or tomorrow's. In a life with a potentially infinite number of each, the value behind the currency of time had been ultimately nullified.



“You aren't eating”, Dave said.



Benjamin looked across the table at Dave, then pushed his plate of synthetic-eggs to the side.

“I know”, he said.



Benjamin turned around in his seat compulsively, then glanced over his shoulder; the wall of the cafeteria behind him was a curved pane of glass, exposing the empty, black landscape outside.

“Do you want something else to eat? I'm going for seconds.”



“No. Thanks, Dave.”



Dave picked up both plates. Benjamin nodded his thanks again, then Dave turned toward the food-dispensers.



Benjamin watched the stars out-side move slowly from the bottom of the long window toward the top; it looks like a Windows 95 screen-saver, he thought; and with the dislodging of that small, obscure pebble of memory, an avalanche of nostalgia began in-side Benjamin’s head.



When Benjamin had been young – actually young – his father had lead him by the hand into their backyard before his bed-times, to point at stars in the night-sky, and to trace the constellations for him with his finger. Then, the sight of the stars had been Benjamin's ultimate exhilaration. On his twelfth birthday – he couldn't comprehend living a life of only twelve-years now, but knew he had once – his father had given him a telescope to explore his new hobby. It was the spark that had lit decades of amateur astronomy.



Three-hundred and sixty years after being lead into the backyard by his father's hand, there was no longer any exhilaration left for Benjamin in the stars; now, it felt as though he was confronting the universe's cold indifference through the curved-glass of the cafeteria-window.

Several moments later, Dave sat down with another plate of easy-eggs, and a tall glass of orange-juice.

Benjamin asked: “Did you grow up on Earth, Dave?” Benjamin didn't think Dave was a colony boy; Dave was too mannered, his dialect too planetary.

Dave looked across the table at Benjamin, runny egg dripping off his fork. “Nope.” A mouthful. “I grew up on EC-I, actually; sector-seven. I was sixty when I first visited Earth – on a honeymoon, with my wife Zultraan. She bought a globe as a souvenir." Dave laughed, then took another mouthful of egg. “She’s still got it, I think. Why do you ask?”



“I thought you might be, sorry.”

“No. My grand-parents were among the first Japanese to immigrate to space colonies.", Dave said. "What do you mean 'you thought'? You never asked me before now.”

"You don't speak like someone who grew up on EC-I", Benjamin said. "I guess I just assumed."

“My parents raised me pretending we were still on Earth. Our house even had a synthetic lawn out-front. My father imported goods from Earth to EC-I for a living; stupid trivial shit people still missed from Earth, like garden gnomes. Our dinner table was actually made of wood. Do you believe that?" Dave laughed again, then stopped quickly; he seemed to come to the realization that Benjamin could believe it, and actually he could believe it rather easily. "I don't like wood”, Dave amended. “I don't like how it feels to touch." A shrug. "Anyway – when I was old enough, I ran away, and went into the illegal oxygen trade”, Dave said, before another mouthful. “Lots of oxygen farms on EC-I. It was a good job." Chewing. "So, you can tell me, Ben: did I miss out on much not growing up on Earth, really?”

“I don't know. Sometimes I think so, Dave. You don't seem to think so, though, and your probably right; we brought most of the good stuff with us." Ben raised his mug off the table slightly. "Like coffee. Could of done with leaving the garden gnomes behind, but what can you do about that now."



"I never understood those things."



Benjamin turned in his seat, and glanced out of the cafeteria window again, before asking: "Garden gnomes?"

"Yeah."

"There isn't anything to get. They were stupid on Earth, too."

“What's the matter, Ben? You aren't eating, and you keep looking out that window.” Benjamin opened his mouth, but said nothing; so Dave prompted him further: “Are you anxious to start seeing familiar sights? You won't for a couple more hours, you know.”



“I know. I just had a bad sleep last night." Dave looked satisfied with Benjamin's answer, but only some-what. Benjamin continued: "Besides, EC-I isn't nearly as familiar to me as it is to you.”



Dave finished his second plate of eggs in amiable silence. His appetite never ceased to startle Benjamin.



Benjamin sat back in his seat, nursed his coffee idly, and retreated for a short while into a dense, thick tangle of thoughts.

Benjamin's memory of his dream the previous night had faded away, almost entirely; all he could recall now was that, at a point, he had been watching the moon-landing on his parents small television-set. Like so many from his generation, the black and white image of Armstrong standing beside the American flag had been indelibly stamped on both his conscience and his sub-conscience; strong enough, apparently, to linger there for over three-hundred years. There had been more to the dream; Benjamin was sure of that, but he couldn't remember anything. He could feel the texture of the dream, still, like a mute after-taste, but the specifics and details were gone. Had Katharine been a part of it?, Benjamin asked himself inside his head. No memory surfaced in reply.



After a long silence, but not a particularly awkward one, Dave said: "There's a briefing in an hour, by the way."



- - -

Ben filled two mugs with coffee from the dispenser, then brought them back to the table.



“Thanks”. Dave reached for his mug. “Home sweet home, huh?”

A disc-shaped hologram of the Milky Way floated an inch above the table in-front of Dave, projected out of a small device that he had produced earlier from his coat-pocket. Dave swiped his hand at the hologram idly, sending it twirling in circles like a spinning-top. Dave stopped the holograms rotation with the touch of his finger, then double-tapped the miniature projection of a small, red planet.

An info screen appeared: “EARTH COLONY I”.

“I don't have family left on EC-I, like you do on Earth, but I'm excited to see home again. Most of my family is on EC-19, now; everyone moved with my father’s business, but – I guess I just miss the red skies.”

“I don’t have family anywhere.” Ben sat down with his mug of coffee in-front of him. "I out-lived my family."



“Oh, I’m sorry”, Dave said. “I thoug–”



“It’s okay”, Benjamin said, then he changed the subject: “You know, when I was young–”



“On Earth?”

“Yeah– when I was young, I used to read stories about EC-I. Bradbury, Asimov, Heinlein; I grew up on that stuff. I had a telescope beside my bedroom-window when I was twelve.” Benjamin smiled, then sipped his coffee quickly, and continued: “I snuck out of bed most nights, just to look through it, sometimes right till morning. My Dad knew – I think he did, anyway – and he never stopped me. I had model of NASA's Apollo 11 dangling above my bed by a string; posters of Buzz Aldrin and Armstrong in my closet – Armstrong was my favourite." Benjamin took another slight pause, then finished: "I was a space-nut, I guess.”

“Asimov? Heinlein?” Dave had clearly been waiting to ask the question.

“Never mind. This–”

“Were they astronauts on an earlier Apollo shuttle?”

“No.” Ben laughed. “They were writers. But – this was all before man had actually been to EC-I. Did you know that? We called it Mars then, because it wasn't a colony yet.” Saying that name made Benjamin feel old. He laughed nervously, then checked to see if Dave was still paying attention – Dave had finished his coffee, then set the mug aside; now, he was leaning forward, the partial hologram of a universe impaling his chest – Benjamin continued, re-assured of Dave’s interest: “And in these stories, there would always be life-forms waiting for us on Mars; and they'd always be short, green, and hostile. Silly looking things. We called them Martians.”



“There were no life-forms on EC-I before man.” Dave spoke incredulously.



Benjamin shock his head. “No. That wasn't what I was saying. The point is: I didn't know if there was – or wasn't. Can you imagine how that felt? Nobody knew; not really. There was only speculation. We just believed in things, then." Benjamin sipped his coffee, then shock his head, now unsure of what he had been saying. He sighed, then asked: "What else could we do?”

Dave sat back in his seat, and watched the hologram in-front of him rotate slowly. After a long moment, he said: “No, I can't imagine it.”

Benjamin was looking out of the window again. “Well, Dave, sometime I wonder if I forgot how it felt myself.”



Dave stood from the table, seeming to be suddenly uncomfortable in Benjamin's company. "Sorry, I've got to go prepare the communication-feeds for the briefing."



I spoke too much, Benjamin thought.



Dave stopped for a moment, then turned around. "Don't be late, okay?"



"Okay, Dave."

“Coffee after the briefing, and you can tell me about these Mars stories, then; okay?” Dave laughed, then turned around. Before passing through the door-way, he turned one last time, and called back to Benjamin: “Don’t be late!”





























- - -

Dave gave Benjamin a sharp, side-ways look, then turned back toward the briefing-monitors. Benjamin sat down in the empty chair beside Dave, trying his best not to draw attention to his late entrance.




Two monitors stood at the front of the briefing room; on the right-side monitor, the video-feed showed the scarred, fat face of the TARSAC’s Chief of Operations; on the left-side monitor, a taller man stood in a white, plain coat, in-front of what looked to be a rather long computer-panel – this face was unfamiliar to Benjamin.




Dave turned in his chair, and glanced at Ben. "You're late."




"I know. Did I miss anything?"




"We were drinking coffee twenty minutes ago. Where'd you get lost?"




"I just got caught up."




"Sure. Yeah, you missed a bit. That's our guy on EC-1 up there." Dave motioned to the unfamiliar face.

Ben was surprised. "That's the customer?"




"Mhmm."

A dozen men sat around a semi-circle shaped table, with two towering monitor-screens on its broad-side. Each of the men were dressed alike, and each shared a singular hair-cut, as-well as a singular posture; only Ben slumped forward in his chair.




The unfamiliar face was speaking now: "I will meet your crew at the docks after they are done loading the equipment you've requested. I'll give you the coordinates then, on paper; as-well as a number of other sensitive pieces of information – best to be on paper; untraceable that way. Memorize the coordinates, then burn them."




Dave leaned in toward Benjamin, and said: "The docks are in the outer-portion of Sector-Seven, near the oxygen farms; that's where my family lived. It's life-less, even by EC-I standards; and it smells like pi–"




The Chief nodded: "Understood."




Dave paused a moment, then continued: "The coordinates he mentioned are to a desert on the other-side of the planet. It's completely uninhabited. Chief said there are a few ghost-towns near our drop-off point, so there must have been someone there sometime, but fuck if I can guess why. I thought the eight sectors were it, as far as attempts at colonization went. I know there’s a few out-posts out there, thou–" Dave paused again.




The Chief addressed the room: “Tso and Dave are going to load the equipment onto the ship after we dock.”

“Shit”, Dave whispered.

“John, speak to me before disembarking, please”, Chief said. “Your going to take a shopping-list with you. Everybody else is free to roam Sector-Seven as they see fit, as long as no one draws attention to themselves, the mission, and especially not to the TARSAC. Clear?”

All twelve men stood from the semi-circle table simultaneously, then saluted the right monitor.




“Good. The day is your’s, gentlemen. Haymitch; we’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Haymitch nodded, then both monitors turned black.

Leaving the briefing room, Benjamin turned back toward Dave. "You never said what the job was."




"Where did you go off to earlier?"

"I lost track of myself.” They came to a intersection in the corridor, and turned toward the cafeteria without pause. “Want another cup?”

“Sure.”

“If no one's in this desert, what the fuck are we needed for there?"

"Escorted expedition under the surface."

Benjamin stopped in-front of the cafeteria-door. “What?”

- - -

To be continued...

Favourite Television: "The Wire" (Spoiler Free)

Before I start, a Warning:

The Wire assumes you've been paying close attention, and it has very, very little sympathy for any viewer who hasn't been. It demands more of its audience than any other TV show I can think of - both emotionally and intellectually - but, if you are willing to "work" (meaning: not surfing the internet while you're watching, or texting, ect.), The Wire will make it more than worth the effort.

The Wire never fails to defy your expectations; never once does it fail to develop a character to their most satisfying extent; never once does it abandon a story-arc, or take an unsure step: it is perfectly conceived, in every way. Unlike Breaking Bad (which I've talked about here before, at some length), its symbolism and themes are never on-the-nose or obvious (that has always been my major complaint with Breaking Bad, and those flashy, superficial camera-angels, too).

The Wire is the most masterful story-telling I've ever witnessed in the medium. Much like the Greek Tragedies, The Wire affirms life without concealing its tragic nature from the audience (for further explanation, read The Birth of Tragedy, by Friedrich Nietzsche). I regard this show as an achievement on the level of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales or Milton's Paradise Lost; so important, it transcends television, and even the medium of film.

Basically: I think The Wire is the great Epic of our time.

Short Story: "Barbie"

“Hi!”

The voice I heard sounded like the voice I'd imagine Barbie's plastic vocal-cords making: shrill, utterly vacant, and loud – very loud.

I turned around in my bus-seat, and pretended to look out the window behind me. Barbie was middle-aged. She wore the tight uniform of a business-woman, and she clutched a pink cell-phone directly up against the side of her caked face.

“Is – is this Sam?”, she said.

I heard then the slightest prick of uncertainty underneath the candy-coating of her bubbly voice, and it tugged on my interest enough to make me leave my head-phones on my lap for a while longer, and eavesdrop on the rest of her conversation.

“Oh! – Sam! It's been so long.” 

“I haven't seen you or Patty since.. when? New Year's at Marsha’s, must've been!”

“I know – I know!”

“Tyler and I were just talking last night about how you two haven't come over for dinner in forever. I miss Patty's 'definitely getting fucked-up tonight' cock-tails!”

Fake laughter erupted behind me. It was as if someone had pulled the string on her back, triggering the sound-box inside her hollow, plastic-casing to start making the irritating noises it was programed to produce.

“I'm telling her you said that!”

A mock gasp. 

Then more mechanical laughter. 

“I'm so – so going to, Sam!”

I found myself wondering if this woman knew she was on a bus right now. 

“Tell me, have you two found that apartment downtown you were talking about last New Years yet?” 

“Yeah, that's downtown, huh.”

“Sam, I miss you two! Patty is my favourite girlfriend! Why do we always act like strangers?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Oh, no! Sorry – well, me and Tyler are having dinner at his mother's house Thursday. Sorry, Sam! Really am!”

“It's just a busy week.”

“I'll give Patty a call sometimes soon, really soon, and we'll figure out a date that works better. Leave it to the girls, right?”

“Well, okay Sam.”

“Tell Patty I miss my girlfriend!”

“Okay now, Bye-bye!”

I glanced behind myself again, and saw the woman snap her phone shut. I turned back around, relieved.

“Hi!”

A moment later, her phone was open again, and pressed so hard against the side of her face I was sure it would leave a white Nokia-shaped mark when she removed it.

“Samantha?”

“Oh, Jesus – Samantha, I actually got you this time. I thought I called Sam by mistake again.”

“Remember, you met him at one of our dinner-parties? His wife – Patty, I think - was really annoying. Remember?”

“She was the one who kept telling me my guacamole needed more sour-cream.”

“Yeah, the couple Tyler and me met during our counselling. Your contacts are next to each other in my phone. I should've deleted both their numbers, but I kept forgetting”

“Tell me about it.”

“It was hilarious, I was like 'Oh, Sam'.”

“I got off the phone as soon as I could.”

Poem: "Since Childhood's Final Hour"

Since Childhood's final Hour, such has been my torment:

the lament of a greatest love found unspent;

or, to have once seized hold of the firmament,

knowing then the truth: that no man could ever twice ascent.

Review: "The Walking Dead: The Game", "Episode One: A New Day"

The Walking Dead: The Game is very similar in it's game-play mechanics to TellTale's previous licensed, serialized release, Jurassic Park: The Game, only here they have been used to considerably better effect.

After Jurassic Park: The Game, which felt endless, tedious, and completely without interaction, The Walking Dead: The Game quickly establishes itself as a colossal improvement for TellTale Games. It also features a remarkably better story then Jurassic Park: The Game, too, penned by The Book of Eli screen-writer Gary Witta (good enough to even compensate for the game's shallow, binary morality-system).

The pacing here is perfect. Conversations feel immediate, dynamic, and never drag on for too long. Action sequences (all in the form of quick-time events) are surprisingly engaging, considering how easy and linear they are. Puzzles are all intuitive; none seem like gimmicky ways of stalling the player's progress, and creating artificial game-length. One segment of the game (set in the zombie-infested parking-lot of a motel), late in the first episode, even incorporates some refreshing tactical game-play. 

The Walking Dead: The Game feels fiercely loyal to it's source-material, despite never directly recreating a single scene from either the Image comic-book series or the AMC television-show. Characters from the larger The Walking Dead universe do make brief appearances (episode one features both Glenn and Hershel), but this initial episode is far more concerned with establishing it's original cast; all of whom are surprisingly well written, and voice-acted.

A well-seasoned "gamer" isn't likely to find much challenge in The Walking Dead: The Game (aside from navigating confrontational conversations, solving very simple puzzles, and mashing on the Q and E keys relentlessly during quick-times), but despite this, the game manages to maintain a thick, palpable sense of suspense through-out. During my initial play-through (roughly two hours), I died only once (it was the first possible "death screen", and I only saw it because I was texting when I should have been mashing on the Q key instead). Regardless, every encounter felt a "game-over" waiting to happen.

A review of the second episode (including spoilers for Episode One: A New Day) will be up once it has been released, and I've finished playing it.

Poem: "Where the White Water-Lillies Grow"

(for Kyra MacPherson)

Come Stranger, follow close behind me.

I will take you down to a place where the water-lilies grow white as snow,

& I'll show you a fairy sat on each; floating on the ripples, dipping her toe.

Do you believe me, Stranger?

Some are not able to hear thier fairy-song, and most are too blind to see them fly

to and fro, touching a lily-pad & then ascending again- so many it fills the sky.

The path starts here:

Come, this way, through the tall, sweeping grass aglow,

& toward the water. You might already hear their song?- no?

We are here, Stranger:

Where the water-lilies grow, & the fairies sing; a hidden place your senses deny

& your heart already knows. Thier wings are a beautful flutter, their bodies spry;

here, where the white water-lillies grow.

Favourite Films: "Winter Light"

The original Swedish title, Nattvardsgästern, translates into English as “Holy Communion”. This is a very apt title for the middle chapter of Bergman's Faith Trilogy, but it is also a dry and obvious one. The International English re-titling of Nattvardsgästern, which the director Ingmar Bergman had no input in, managed to better capture the thematic qualities of his film, as well as the experimental lighting process Bergman and cinematographer Sven Nykvist concieved: Winter Light.

The vast majority of Ingmar Bergman's filmography was filmed almost exclusively on Summer evenings, during the “magic hours” (roughly six to eight in the afternoon). The effect of this very time-consuming method of natural lighting had given Bergman's cinematography an endued warmth in past films, that made each frame feel full and round. In exception, Winter Light was filmed during November. The contrast is palpable to anyone who has viewed a number of Bergman's films previous. The screen feels colder in Winter Light, empty, and pessimistic. Even the pastor's service at the beginning of the film – an undeniable career best from Bergman regular Gunnar Björnstrand - sounds aesthetically chilly, like a winter wind, and leaves your neck-hairs raised.

Bergman's then wife Kabi Laretei said, upon viewing Winter Light in its final form: "Yes, Ingmar, it's a masterpiece. But it's a dreary masterpiece."

Ernst Ingmar Bergman was born in Uppsala, Sweden, 1918, where he grew up the son of a pastor. The prevalence of Christian imagery and theology in his childhood would inform the symbols and thematic explorations of his films throughout his life, even after Bergman abandoned his faith. This religious turning-point came for Bergman halfway through filming his unofficial Faith Trilogy, before he began writing Winter Light.

Bergman writes, "These three films deal with reduction. Through a Glass Darkly – conquered certainty. Winter Light – penetrated certainty. The Silence – God's silence – the negative imprint. Therefore, they constitute a trilogy." In an interview in 1969 Bergman stated that these three films had originally not been intended as a trilogy, he only regarded them as such in retrospect due to their similarity – hence I use the term “unofficial trilogy”.

The first film in the trilogy, Through a Glass Darkly, ultimately affirms that faith has a metaphysical value (though its plot is considerably more bloody than Winter Light's). After the film was completed, Bergman fell into a deep religious crisis. Winter Light directly reflects this development in Bergman's life. It bares all of his doubt, his anguish, and his growing intolerance of “the Spider God”, who watches but always remains silent. By the time Bergman filmed the third chapter in his Faith Trilogy, The Silence, he had entirely made the transition from Faith to Atheism.

Bergman's beliefs are cemented in both book-ends of the trilogy; for this reason, neither the first or last films carry much weight. Both Through a Glass Darkly and The Silence expend very little subtilty on their themes. They're equally guilty of being too preachy, even if they preach opposing doctrines. The middle chapter, Winter Light, falls somewhere in between those certainties, in a void filled with existential angst. It's this quality that makes Winter Light my preferred film of the Faith Trilogy.

Ingmar Bergman was a vicious critic of his own out-put. Even some of his seminal films – Virgin Springs, Wild Strawberries, The Seventh Seal – he regarded as deeply flawed. He took exception to Winter Light. From an interview recorded for Swedish television in 2003, introducing the film:

Arie Nyreröd: "You're often harsh when speaking of your own movies."

Ingmar Bergman: “You think so?”

Nyreröd: “But one film that you always mention with tenderness is Winter Light. Why is it so important to you?”

Bergman: “[...] Working in this profession of butchers and whores, you develop this great need to please people. You keep wishing your movies will be successful, that this strenuous effort you put into making a film. [...] Well, I was a bit tormented by all that. I felt I was being ingratiating. [So I wrote] strictly about the problems that occupy me. Not for a moment, not for a minute, [did] I want the story to be ingratiating. [I told] the story exactly and precisely the way I envisioned it. [...] Which meant that all the light...would be this grayish, shadowless light. November light. Sven and I went up to Dalarna, to a church in Skattungbyn, where we sat from morning till night taking notes. Sven took pictures the whole time of how the light moved through the church. He then invented something that had never existed before, a kind of lamp that could provide a shadowless light. I'm very fond of this movie. I think in a way this is the movie that is closest to me. [...] For once I made a film that I consider a brave film."


Part of Bergman's favouritism toward Winter Light could be credited to the similarity between the protagonist, pastor Thomas Ericsson (Gunnar Björnstrand), and Bergman's father, a pastor who also struggled for the attention of his flock. But beneath the autobiographical elements of the plot, there is a thematic exploraion that is far closer to the author. Vilgot Sjöman's documentary Ingmar Bergman Makes a Movie was made simultaneously with Winter Light, and documented its production. In it, Bergman claims in interview that he was able to "[realize] who he really was" through the making of Winter Light.

In the films final scenes of Winter Light, Thomas realizes that the God he has prayed to his entire life is a silent God, and he can no longer abided it. He's a God who is incapable of comforting him, and who watches his pain and suffering indifferently. After Thomas confesses his doubt during an evening prayer, he decides he will not host an afternoon-service - the church is empty, except for a slightly intoxicated pianist. Thomas is about to leave, when Algot, a paralyzed school-teacher, enters the church. He asks to have a moment with his priest. Thomas considers denying Algot, but after a hesitation, he removes his coat and returns it to the rack.


Algot Frövik, Sexton: “The passion of Christ, his suffering... Wouldn't you say the focus on his suffering is all wrong?”

Tomas Ericsson, Pastor: “What do you mean?”

Algot Frövik: “This emphasis on physical pain. It couldn't have been all that bad. It may sound presumptuous of me - but in my humble way, I've suffered as much physical pain as Jesus. And his torments were rather brief. Lasting some four hours, I gather? I feel that he was tormented far worse on another level. Maybe I've got it all wrong. But just think of Gethsemane, Vicar. Christ's disciples fell asleep. They hadn't understood the meaning of the last supper, or anything. And when the servants of the law appeared, they ran away. And Peter denied him. Christ had known his disciples for three years. They'd lived together day in and day out - but they never grasped what he meant. They abandoned him, to the last man. And he was left alone. That must have been painful. Realizing that no one understands. To be abandoned when you need someone to rely on - that must be excruciatingly painful. But the worse was yet to come. When Jesus was nailed to the cross - and hung there in torment - he cried out - "God, my God! Why hast thou forsaken me?" He cried out as loud as he could. He thought that his heavenly father had abandoned him. He believed everything he'd ever preached was a lie. The moments before he died, Christ was seized by doubt. Surely that must have been his greatest hardship? God's silence.”

Tomas Ericsson: “Yes...”