Writ

Ozone; or, The Horror Upstairs

WHEN A MAN HAS GIVEN his life to science, even to the naked edge of that science, he is expected to be vocal about it. And if others choose not to listen, well … perhaps they won’t have the nightmares, the persistent phobias, that I do.

My name is Howard Philips. I came to this city because it offered better opportunities for a dreaming poet and erudite antiquarian than did the sprawling, soulless suburbs. I dwelt in a squalid flat near the docks, one of the city’s older neighborhoods. The pre-century architecture and furtive residents suited my mood; the diverse faces of the passing crowds inspired me to tell (or invent) their stories in free verse and rhyme.

My building seemed to have stood forever, as evidenced by its worn-down hallway carpeting; shabby lighting; and close, dank air. Its most reclusive tenant lived directly above me. I never met or even saw him, but the loud and incessant hum from his apartment – an untuned wireless? droning rotary fan? Failing air-conditioner? – disturbed my creative meditations. When I tried to complain to him, my intermittent knocking brought no response.

Then, one day, the noise ceased.

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I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”
— Thos. Jefferson

Writ

Stellar Blues

do the stars know the names
by which we call them?

we,
the hubristic and temporary,
label the unthinkably ancient
with quick mouth sounds
and fading pen-scratches.

will they mourn
when we are gone?

would they say:

“nice try, two-legs;
you had one chance
at planetary survival
and missed it
by not paying attention.”

would but those who did pay
had more power than
only the will
to shout

stop

and make it stick.

Writ

Prosatio Silban and the Proxy Diner

SOMETIMES, “HUNGER” IS JUST ANOTHER word for “desperation.”

Prosatio Silban heaved a sigh and pondered his bleak future. How does this keep happening? he asked himself. How do my circumstances seem to always drop so low?

To be fair, it wasn’t all his fault. Already scant on funds, he had arrived in Village-at-the-Old-Forest on the premise of feeding the hungry locals and any prolific passers-through with the rumored plenty of the hamlet’s woods, fields, and orchards. Here it was a week later, and the rumors of abundance had been thoroughly disproven – call it “bad luck” if you believe in that sort of thing, or “the fickle whims of the Flickering Gods” if you don’t. Either way, he had nothing to show for his generous ambitions but a nearly depleted pantry, an empty coin jar, and negligible custom.

I can’t afford to stay, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting at one of his empty tables-and-chairs and drumming his fingers on its painted wicker surface. Neither can I well afford to leave. So – what shall I do?

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Clearly the best time to be alive is when you start out wondering and end up knowing. There is only one generation in the whole history of mankind in that position. Us.”
— Carl Sagan, June 1974

Writ

For Franz Kafka

THE OLD WOMAN SAT, SOFTLY singing, on a blue wooden chair in the vast cobbled square, rippling a carpet of birds with each cast of her seedful hand.

Tall jagged buildings loomed on all four sides — blocky and black-windowed, granite-yellow in the light of the dying sun, their shadows not quite lengthened to cover her frail red-shawled form. The air was cold her cheeks red as the birds fought for dried corn and cracker crumbs.

A tall man strode toward her — dark blue and broadshouldered, cap visor shading all but his dour mouth.

She rolled with the blow which sent her sprawling.

Fluttering clucks roared, arose, the birds swept round and round him. He raised his arms, alarmed; they were wings and he dwindled, his voice now one chirp among hundreds.

She felt herself, sighed, and satisfied, arose; then shifted her shawl and sat, singing softly, scattering seeds.

Writ

Act of Greed

“THANK YOU FOR CALLING Total Auto, may I help you?”

“Yes, my car was swept away in the recent floods, and I would like to file a claim.”

“I’m sorry sir, but flood coverage isn’t included in any of our policies.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Flood coverage isn’t included in any of our automotive insurance policies. If you look at your policy statement, you’ll see that items such as unanticipated flooding, freak hailstorms, etc., are what we call ‘Acts of God.’ We can’t insure against something like that.”

“Why not?”

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