A Brief Life

From a distance, the two girls could have been sisters. As they walked across the still-wet rooftop of the school that cold afternoon they held hands and smiled. The puddles stained their white loafers a light shade of grey like ash on fresh snow. Upon a closer inspection, the girls look very little alike. The taller, Mitsuko, wears her hair parted in the middle and her longer, dour face gives her a look of permanent disapproval. Yuko, the younger, has an upturned nose, an impish grin and her hair is swept off to the left. While the two girls look very similar from a distance in appearance and countenance, they are very different when viewed from up close.

As they walk they talk of the things high school girls are expected to: boys, classes, their upcoming entrance exams for their respective colleges. Yuko wishes to attend a respected fashion school while Mitsuko longs for the world of political science. The two girls, with so little in common, do not share any common dreams. Their only connection is dance. They met as 1^st year students in the Dance Circle at their high school. Despite being so different, their strides are the same. They walk with the poise and grace of a dancer. On the balls of their feet, they glide across the rooftop with their shoulders back and their heads erect. The mere act of turning the head is calculated and delicately executed to be a movement of grace and elegance.

When the girls reach the stairwell, Yuko bids Mitsuko farewell. Yuko tells her that she wants to stay on the roof a while longer. Mitsuko, accustomed to her eccentricities, smiles and waves good bye for the night. Yuko waits for Mitsuko to begin her descent down the stairs of their three story school building. When she is certain that Mitsuko is at the 3^rd floor landing she walks to the front ledge of the building. Certainly, Mitsuko is now at the 2^nd floor landing. Yuko removes her shoes and takes out a pink envelope, placing it gently on the shoes. 1^st floor, Mitsuko is now at her locker, getting her street shoes. Yuko climbs the fence that keeps her trapped on the rooftop. When she reaches the top, she sees Mitsuko walking out of the front door.  For a moment, Yuko is weightless, before gravity takes over and does its assigned duty.

Why?

Why on earth are geeks so quick to trust the government?

I stood by and watched as legions of bloggers, gamers, writers and more all wrote and stumped for a man bent on increasing the power of the government.

After watching 8 years of one president rewrite the values of his party why would we seek to elect a man interested in carrying on the same?

Why do we trust the government? Why do we want them to solve our problems? Has the last 200+ years taught us nothing? The Government is a problem and a blockade against progress.

I expect that future elections will be marred by our current president’s inability to make good on the 300+ individual promises he made. I had no faith he would keep even a small number of them. The good people, misguided though they were, voted for him in good faith. And now they will be made into fools, creating the greatest generation of cynics to ever walk American soil.

And why should I care? I warned them. I told them the government cannot solve your problems or make good on its promises.

Hey, Gamer Kids! Yeah, You!

Listen up kids.

You don’t get it. You don’t understand. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes. You don’t know what it’s like to work for a publisher versus a developer. So cram it!

If you think X Publisher is screwing up a game, how do you know? You don’t know what they’re doing and what choices they have.

Whenever some “horrendous” change is made to your favorite game the developer agreed to it. Don’t blame the publisher, it was the developer.

Ever heard the term “Don’t Shoot the Messenger?” Yeah, exactly. Deal with it kiddies.

Quickly now!

Not much time to write.

Need to write quicker.

Incessant beeps in my ear are incessant!

Jealousy

I have a problem with jealousy.

I don’t mind admitting it. It’s the truth so there’s no good reason to deny it. Whenever someone near me does something gets them even the slightest bit of recognition I get jealous and want to best them.

Consider this a revival.

Exquisite Corpse

inside an refrigerator stranded on an island

autistic savant

Count Dracula

Colors float and bound, I wonder how long life still lasts within these cramped quarters. No seeing, no being, so soon now must I die. This last love song written for a world that will never see me. Stretching out I touch my head, oh a head. Looking around I see nothing but the black colors shifting in front of my eyes. The musty smell of old food, someone left a ketchup packet in. The ketchup is still cool. Reflecting on how I got here I realize that really need some help.

When I first landed on this island a pen and three bars of chocolate were all I had with me. The idiots onboard my cruise ship kept giving me chocolate anytime I tried to communicate with them. certainly I receive things differently, sights colors and sounds are as tangible and real as the physical objects that I can feel and smell. But that’s all in the past, now I’m in a refrigerator on an island, with only god knows how much longer left to wait until I asphyxiate and die.

Despite my cruise’s final destination of Iceland the course sent us East, around the Golden Coast, after passing india and even after our home port of Japan. Being what I am is not easy. I smell what others see, hear what others smell, the smell of a chocolate cake is like a great purple streak wafting away from the black iron oven that cages it. When my cruise ship crashed I can only assume that we were somewhere north east of the Golden coast.

On this island, as I walked about with it odd multihued colors and strangeness abounding I found myself reflecting on the depravity of our time. Strewn about this beautiful beach were the trappings of a world gone mad. I found a picture of a child, dressed as count dracula, amazingly, in an old waterproof lock box. The seal had kept it dry but the lock had rusted beyond repair. After cracking it open I realized there were many other boxes all about.

Indeed, this island was a graveyard for boxes of all kinds, cereal boxes spilled out of a shipping container, boxes of fruity pebbles, corn flakes and Coco-puffs, all aged beyond recent memory. Then something caught my nose. The green smell of plastics and burning electronics. I saw smoke rising from another portion of the island. stumbling my way through that course underbrush I made my way into a clearing. A Television was on fire in the middle, the remote control sat on a pedestal of carved ivory. I pushed at the buttons, the smoke changed colors and the channel flickered about. Losing interest I pressed on to the mountain in the middle of the island.

Climbing up that mountain I saw at the top a great black cloud. Not white and fluffy but great and black. Not a cloud, but, as I saw it, a great rip in the space time continuum, belching forth boxes of all kinds. A green glint caught my nose and I saw something land loudly in a snow bank nearby. A memory long gone and twice passed: a 1979 Kenmoore Avocado Green Fridge. It was pristine, it lay on its side, somehow undamaged. As I walked towards it I was amazed by the shiny chrome ratcheting handle. I reached out, entranced by the shining sun on its handle, I touched it, cold and powerful and lifted the door open. I tripped, the door latched behind me.

Two more minutes. Then silence.

Old Woman Revisted

“Its a strange thing watching a cat die” I thought. In my 80 some odd years I’ve watched many people die. My children, my two husbands, pets, old friends, family all passed before my own time. It wasn’t my fault; but, as I sat on the old gold plush davenport I found myself reflecting on my many years I couldn’t help but remember little Mirtonia. The cat on my lap purred quietly, his eyes are rheumy but not in pain. I stroked the cats remaining ear absent midedly. Staring out the window into the sun-soaked fields of heather I allowed my mind to wander to a time when I was much younger, comely, perhaps even sexy.
“Connie!”
“Yes mother?” I rolled my eyes, my mother was so exasperating to me then.
“I think a package is going to be delivered today, would you mind going to the door and checking for it?” my mother smiled sweetly while gesturing towards the door she couldn’t see. I muimbled an affirmative and sulked towards the door. I was nearly 22 but still living at home because my university was nearby. When I reached the door I jerked it open to find a small box with holes poked in. When I picked it up I had to stifle a smal scream when the box moved. Gingerly, I picked up the box and held it up to the sun and was rewarded with a pair of mismatched eyes staring back at me. I lifted the lid, looking in I saw a calico kitten, not much bigger than my hand. I smiled at the little thing and shouted a “thank you” to my mother. I checked her collar for a name: Mirtonia. I picked up the kitten, the dear didn’t even resist, in fact I recall she mewled in pleasure. As I walked back into the kitchen I distinctly recall the little dear purring heavily as I held her to my breast.
The old cat in my lap gave a pained grumble and I was jolted back to where I was. I gave the old cat a reaffirming pat on the head and went back to scratching its head, talking to it as it worked its way further towards the edge. “You know, you may have been a tough ol’ mean cat in life, but now you’re just a big softy” I chortled at the old cat who merely looked back at mer with the jaded eyes of a cat who had seen the cold alleys of the city and the soft warm laps of the elderly. “Oh I know you hate being reminded, but you must forgive an old women for her observations. As we get older we tend to stop thinking in our heads you know; we become more vocal. I think it reminds us that we can still hear and that we aren’t dead yet.” I smiled at that thought.
“Mirtonia?”
“Mrow!” Mirtonia padded softly towards my bed where I lay, the little calico’s tail upright; bent at the tip where she had gotten it caught in a door. Lithely, she hopped onto my lap. I set down the book I was reading to make room for her.
“Oh Mirtonia, I was wondering when you would come back inside looking for a lap.” I let my hands fall gently to rest on Mirtonia’s head and looked into her mis-matched eyes. Mirtonia just returned my stare, patiently. Confident I had her full attention I began to gently stroke her head as I talked.
“You know you’ve been here a year now. I hope you’re enjoying it.”
“Mrrrr” Mirtonia ascented to my question. Without a doubt, she understood me, or so I liked to believe.
“You know, mom gave you to me because she knew she wouldn’t be here much longer for me. She thought I ought to have someone around so I wouldn’t get too lonely.”
“Mryeew”
I laughed at her response.
“I’m so glad you understand me. Thank you for staying with me darling, this house wold be much colder without you.” I smiled and continued to pet her until the sun set.
“Just a little longer I see” Looking down at the old cat I allowed myself a brief smile for the old dear. The cat’s breath had become shallow, labored. I never really considered it odd that cats always came to me shortly before their death. I probably smell like fish, or maybe I’m haunted by benevolent feline spectres. Ever since little Mirtonia had passed on I never had another kitten. After Mirtonia I only took in old strays, ready to pass on, just looking for a soft lap and a warm place.

Repetition

No one knows just how it is; to lose the one you love. To never see that one person again. No longer a part of each day; that eternal sequence of one to twelve. Each person is unique in their loss, every loss brings one new scar. And this how I was; that unique little snowflake, or so I thought. Not just one blank face in a crowd of thousands. Suddenly I thought my life mattered, that my one little pain was meaningful and made me stand apart from all these happy people going about their happy lives in this damned sequence of one to twelve. Then she came back to me and I was one no longer, I was happy; happy as two people, but in fact as one with the one I loved. Then I died, one casket in the cold hard ground on that cold winter morning where the bishop gave the eulogy, hacking away in that false dulcet tone of his, he ended with just one phrase: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

She Wore Red

She wore red. It was the first time I had seen her in something other than her ill-fitting fatigues and old bomber jacket. Slinky, clingy in the right places yet still practical, it had a high slit that would be easy to run in, the top was tight and the shoulders were free of restraint. Had I not seen her in action I would have loved her. But she was not to be loved, she was unyielding and cold; skin like velvet and a heart of granite. Damn that red dress. I wore a suit, suits aren’t hard to run in and in a pinch you can fight in them. If it came to it I could always lose the jacket and leave behind a slew of evidence, my DNA, where I bought the coat… all traceable. If we did everything right it wouldn’t be an issue. Too many “ifs” and not enough certainties. This felt bad. She held all the cards, I didn’t know enough. Damn that red dress.

We pulled up to the place, dark and foreboding with a bunch of knobs sitting sipping cognac and smoking illegally imported cigars in an upper room. It was invitation only. No one would know us though; this was our first time at this special dinner. They were all sick bastards. They held to ancient codes and cabals. They hailed from various locales around the globe. Every continent was represented. Rumor had it there was even someone from Antarctica here, some sort of monk with a high tolerance to cold. My nerves were tense as I pulled the old Bentley into the spot marked for us. My classic Bentley looked like a hobo’s boot next to all the others, we were definitely the white trash at this party. But then, what could you do with knobs?

The room was smoky and relaxed. They laughed and joked jovially in many languages. We were assured that the other guests would be receptive and sensitive to the fact that this was our first time. Not that it mattered, if everything went well they’d all be dead before we’d have a first time. That poor bastard in the kitchen didn’t even know what was going on, they had him dosed with nitrous oxide if the reports were true. Apparently fear makes meat tough. A laugh and a friendly wave from our host brought me out of my thoughts. Don’t look towards the kitchen you twit I thought to myself.

“Ah my friends, I knew you would come, I was just telling Amir here about the strange coincidence under which we met.” He motioned towards a man with dark skin and crescent shaped piercings through his eyebrows, he wore a ten thousand dollar tailored suit from a store most people can’t even find. Of course, the “coincidence” was a carefully manufactured situation to get us close to him.

He had been walking down the street towards his $200,000 grocery getter when two large men accosted him for his keys. As expected of knobs, he tried to talk his way out, then he tried to pay. When that failed he begged pitifully. The men we had hired were doing their job well, then came the finale. She jumped in, broke one man’s arm while I plugged the other with a round from my revolver. She let him scream for a bit, then snapped his neck to make him shut up. Our host told us to put the bodies in the back of his knobby car. Never once considering why we had helped him. Some people are still dumb enough to believe in humanity. I hate people like that.

Then he introduced himself, it didn’t matter, we knew his name but acted like we didn’t. Women are born liars and Sandra had plenty of practice. I, on the other hand, was confident; the military does that to you. The knob was Marten Hathers. Marten belonged to an ancient cabal of mystics that have been causing trouble for centuries, if not longer. They believed in old gods of horror and chaos. No one had any real records on these people; they had only recently shown up to us because some kid in Oxfordshire had seen them performing their horrible rituals. The poor kid was long dead, but he managed to whisper his secrets to a few others, those others were dead too. But it eventually got to us after cutting a swath of bloody destruction.

“You are in for a treat today, we found a young man of 20, no family, in-between jobs. We can take our time.” I tried to conceal my disgust. Don’t break now I reminded myself. “The chef will be preparing a 5 course meal… he is…” He paused carefully choosing his next words. “…quite skilled, special arrangements had to be made of course, finding a trustworthy person is so very difficult. Our last chef had to be silenced.” The lady spoke, finally, probably sensing my lack of control. “Of course, thank you for inviting us, we have been interested in this sort of cuisine for quite some time but lacked the proper skill to prepare it.” Hathers seemed pleased by this. “A token of my gratitude, such an amazing coincidence really, meeting the way we did. I am quite lucky to be alive.” His voice had an accent I couldn’t place, he gave me the creeps, I wanted to get this finished as soon as possible. A waiter came by with a cigar box and cognac for the two of us, I took both so as to appear sociable, I puffed the cigar a bit, letting the nicotine relax me, I pretended to drink the cognac, taking a small taste. Knobby shit, give me a dark beer you bastard. A bell rang and the nightmare began.

It took ten seconds; start to finish. The poor kid was brought out on a dolly, dosed up on his gas. It was a ritualistic ceremony so he had to be ritualistically executed. Sandra gave me her signal: a kiss on the cheek and a whispered “Go.” I pulled my Beretta, 5 of the guests already dead; throwing knives in their foreheads. I fired at Marten’s knees so as to keep him alive but out of the action. Chaos reigned. The dinner had become a crimson feast of pain and suffering. Sandra danced about, like a ballerina from the other world, wicked and beautiful. Her long hair spun, red as the blood she was letting. I stared, dumbstruck by her bloody dance of knives. Stars lit up in front of my eyes. I had been punched by the Arab I had seen earlier. He had a decent hook but the idiot had gotten close. The explosion out of my pistol reported his death. The chef chose that moment to burst out of the kitchen, crazed and wielding a cleaver. He swung at me and nicked my forehead. Pain etched its way into my skull and blood started clouding my vision. I took a wild shot and hit a guest instead. He was out of sight. The hair on my neck pricked, I ducked and heard the wish of a knife in the air where my head had just been. I threw my foot back and heard the crack as it connected with the chef’s knee. On his knees I put the gun to his head and finished him off. The room had gone silent, save for Marten’s whimpering. Sandra had taken care of the other guests. I was breathing hard and had blood in my eyes. I tore the sleeve off my shirt and made a bandage to staunch the flow. Sandra walked amongst the guests, collected her knives and cleaned them before returning them to their hidden holsters about her person. Marten stared in horror at us, stuttering and stammering. The kid was waking up so we blindfolded and gagged him. We dragged Marten onto the banquet table, did him up with tourniquets and made a quadriplegic of him.

Walking out, with the kid on my shoulder, I lit the place up as we left. We drove off into the night, a job well done. We didn’t talk; she just sucked away on a clove cigarette. We stopped at an E.R. to drop off the kid, it wasn’t part of the contract but she insisted. I had to admit, she looked good in red.

Steam Punk Continued

Vapor obscured my vision and I sat back to survey 4 hours’ labor. The
glasses were complete; a fine piece with brass settings, glass lenses
and 5 progressively smaller magnifying lenses. I needed them to work
on more projects. The work of a brass smith is never finished in our
day and age. Adjusting my stained leather apron I straightened up and
blinked, realizing that the sun was coming up through the grime
stained windows of my workshop. Bronze Town. Capital of our nation of
Lintinum, the jewel in the clockwork. Glancing out, the rising sun
turns the bronze city gold. Off in the distance is the Consortium, the
mile-wide bronze dome housing the nation’s finest literature,
inventions, philosophies and their creators. My goal today was not so
far, much closer in fact. Just downstairs, was my small shop of bronze
fabrications. Mostly I sold simple pipes, fittings and brackets; crude
little trinkets for layman and carpenters. Mongrels, those wood
smiths, unclean materials unwholesome and unnatural. I prefer not to
do business with them  but often when bills are tight one cannot be
choosy of their clientele.

When I walked down to my shop there was already a customer waiting
outside. Pulling the heavy steel key out of my waistcoat pocket I
opened the door and nodded at the customer indicating that she could
come in. She mumbled a “Thank you,” shrugged off her heavy looking
black oil cloth and hung it on my custom pneumatic coat rack. As I
opened up my antique till and began sorting out the various queens and
kards I kept one eye on her and one on my money. She looked to be
maybe 25, clearly not a wood smith, with mousey brown hair pulled back
in a weary looking bun. Her dress was downright ludicrous; she wore a
black pinstriped coat with tails, knickerbockers off an ghastly green
and yellow tweed, all terminating in olive knee socks and copper
buckled black patent leather shoes.  Baffled as I was by her attire I
couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t looking at the usual fasteners,
hinges and ends that laymen usually browsed. Instead, she was
rummaging through my brass pressure amplifiers and steam motors.
Curious I moved away from my till to take a closer look and offered
help.

“Are you looking for something… madam?” I was uncertain about
calling her madam, she wasn’t the prettiest specimen I had ever seen.
“Ya, I’m lookin’ fer 34 kilo amplifiers with 34 mili fittin’s.” She
waved one of the smaller amplifiers as though I didn’t know what an
amplifier looked like. I studied her impassive, coarse, unpretty face
for a sign that she was having me for a lark. Satisfied she knew what
she was talking about I told her they were much too powerful to keep
in stock and that with a 50% down payment she could come back tomorrow
and I would have one for her then.
“Now tha’ wou’d be perfect, ‘ow much will it be?” Momentarily I
wondered how much I could get away with.
“200 Kard, half today, half tomorrow” I didn’t grin for fear of
tipping her off.
“I’ll give ya 50 kard and no’ two queens mo’!”
“Call it a hundred then? These are hand made goods I am selling. No
steam yard workmanship here.”
“75 er I leave.” She looked serious, it was still more than I normally
charged. She knew I was having a go at her.
“75 then, will that be all or are there other items you need?” She was
glaring at me, a frightful sight. I adjusted my green visor and made a
mental note to pick up brass stock after closing.
“Ya, I’ll be needin’ 20 meters o’ reinforced 34 mili hose, 14 fee’ o’
coppa pipin’ an’ 4 brass exhaust nozzles” She grinned, the way she
said nozzle gave me pause because it sounded like she had said “No
sah!” Instead of “Nozzles” Mentally adding up everything she needed
and I told her to wait and I would gather what she needed from the
back room.

Walking back out with a bundle of the hoses and piping she had asked
for under my arm I directed her to my exhaust nozzles. She picked 4 of
my artisan nozzles with nautilus designs. Following me to the register
she placed the nozzles on the counter as I added up her total.
“That will be 34 kards 6 queens for the amplifier, 16 kards for the
hose and 32 kards and 11 queens for the lot. Your total is 83 kards
and 5 queens.” She smiled wickedly, she knew I was having a go at her.
“Ye’re chargin’ twice tha goin’ rate fer them hosin’ an’ pipin’. ‘Ows
‘aboot we call it 63 kard an’ 5 queens eh?” She was glaring now, but
she obviously wanted the materials. Odd since any other brass shop
could have supplied her for less.
“Fine madam, since you are making a special order I will give you that
price.” Grinning she slammed a large gray square coin slightly smaller
than her palm on the counter.
“Great iron moon at night woman! You’re carrying around that kind of
money and you bicker over 20 Kards? That’s a Grey Krown! I barely have
enough money in my till to make change on that.”
“Tha’s why I dicka wit’cha. Gots ta get tha’ price ta where’s I’m
likin’ it befer I’m showin’ the money. Othaways I end up gettin’ raw
ends of coppa if you catch my meaning.” I didn’t understand her
meaning, I barely understood her through that horrible country accent.
She must have grown up in one of the colonies on the Veldt.

After nearly clearing my drawer of money I put her 296 kards and 7
queens in a small leather pouch and handed it to her along with her
bundle of materials which I had tied nicely with burlap and string.
When I handed the bundle to her she took the package but didn’t move
and kept staring at me.
“They’re real you know.” Her accent had vanished.
“I’m afraid I’m not aware of what you mean madam.” At this point I
really just wanted her to leave.
“The spirits in the steam, I’ve seen them and you were right.”
“madam I’m afraid I have not even the steamiest idea of what you mean.
Good day.” She glared at me, seemed to change her mind, smiled
wolfishly and promised to return on the morrow. Annoyed, I turned my
back to her and went into my office with the vault and waited until I
heard the faint jingle of my coat rack and the pneumatic sigh of the
door closing.

The rest of my day went smoothly, without any more bizarre or
obnoxious customers with the exception of a rather shady man looking
for tin and two dumb wood smiths, allowing me to continue about my
business without thinking about my first customer. After the 6th hour
of the sun I closed shop, counted my till and went over the list of
objects I would have to craft tonight. Deciding I had sufficient time
I took a walk to the nearest public house for dinner and a pint.

Once inside the pub I was horror-struck when I recognized a hideous
jacket covering an even uglier outfit sitting at the plank. She didn’t
see me when I walked in so I quickly moved to a dark booth and flagged
down a waitress to bring me a steam boy’s pie and a Copper Lager. Too
late I realized that that horrible woman had seen me. A woman, I now
realize, not as young as she had looked in the early morning light.
Now, in the dark recesses of a pub I couldd see how lined and scarred
her face was. She lacked eyebrows, no surprise to me since most
brasssmiths lack eyebrows; unusual though because most of the women
end up penciling them back in. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed this
earlier. Before I was able to fully mull her face over and make
speculations I realized she was standing in front of my table talking.
“-if I sit here?” I only caught half of the sentence.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, ‘mind if I sit here?’” I indicated that I did not mind and
nodded at the chair across from me and to the side. She took the one
across from me instead.
“You’ve lost your accent.” Peeved I decided I wanted to knitpick.
“Oh that? I slip in and out, I’m from a colony on the Veldt; New Akress.”
“Thats obscure, what brought you all the way into Brass Town; more to
the point: Why are you following me?”
“The way I see it you followed me to the pub.” She chuckled at her own
joke while I remained unammused. “Well fine have it your way. I’ve
been looking for you, Cernum of House Digwain.” I kneeded my temples
and ascented that that was, indeed, my birth name.
“I’m afraid that’s a name I haven’t been known by in a very long time.
I’d prefer it stay in the past in fact.”
“Fair enough. Truth is I went to the same the Consortium University
just like you. I read your thesis after it started gaining popularity.
That little dissertation has caused quite a stir you know.” Thinking
back I could barely remember what I wrote, my professors hadn’t even
liked it much. When I was given back my copy it had little to no
commentary just a barely passing grade.
“My thesis? You mean my graduation thesis about the possibilities of
complex organisms surviving in the steam tanks of Belleron-class Sky
Castles? That had nothing to do with your spirits; it was merely a
cautionary piece to encourage castle builders to create redundant
tanks so that the main tanks can be bled off and cleaned. Besides, I’m
quite sure my professors thought little of it. I barely received a
passing grade and one proffessor went so far as to call the whole
thing ‘rubbish’” Listening, it was obvious she was talking to herself.
She held her chin between her thumb and four finger and kind of
twisted the skin to her left side.
“That explains it!” She shouted so loud several of the patrons at the
plank turned around to stare. Shushing her I told her to continue
quietly. “Your thesis wasn’t called rubbish because the ideas were
bad. They were dissmissed because they made all your professors
nervous. Wether you realized it or not the idea that anything could
survive in a steam tank has been widely considered ludicrous. You were
the first person to seriously suggest it was even possible.”
“Nonsense, it happens all the time in smaller tanks at lower
temperatures.” I dismissed the notion that my idea was unique.
“Apparently that’s what bugged them about it. It was so obvious but no
one had ever thought of it.” She was clearly excited. At that moment
the waitress dropped my pie off along with my pint of lager.

As I ate, Yennis, she finally remembered to introduce herself half way
through my pie, explained to me the current situation at my alma
mater. Apparently there was a factino of students who believed that
life came from steam and that our use of steam power would give rise
to new life. Apparently my thesis had been read by several students
that were a part of this faction. Rather than see it for the rubbish I
knew it was they published it! Every grotty student of the “Steam
Spirits” faction knew my writing. By the time I had finished my pie
she had finally gotten around to telling me why she had come to Bronze
Town to track me down.

“Well, I want to show you what we’re doing.”
“What do you mean? I’m not going to that campus and being your mascot
if that’s what you’re asking for.”
“No no no, nothing like that. I have a warehouse set up where we are
conducting experiments. Would you like to see them?” Without allowing
me to answer she got up, settled my bill and waited patiently at the
door.
“Look, this is all intersting but-”
“Sorry, you’re coming with me.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me
through streets and alleys until we arrived in the packaging district
in front of a derelict building save for its freshly painted sign in a
hopeful “Society for the Advancement of Spiritual Steam Studies.”

When she opened the door light flooded out and onto the street, the
whole palce was lit up with gas lamps. Dominating half of the rugby
stadium sized building was a steam tank with a peculiar looking
protrusion. The other half was filled with piping, an industrial
furnace and boiler as well bunks for the students who presumably slept
there. There were 4 of them milling about, they paid us no mind.
Yennis greeted them all and introduced me. After the introduction they
seemed to pay more attention.

“This is, as I’m sure you can tell, a steam tank from a Bellerone
Class Flying Castle. We’ve modified it so that the pressure inside is
three times as high as any tank in use. We believe it is the pressure
that causes the catalyst.” She began gesturing at the various gauges,
I was too awestruck. All this had come from my silly little thesis.
“We’re very close to getting our results. We believe we may already
have advanced organisms inside. We’ve noticed noises emanating from
the tank when we turn in for the night. There were ten of us
originally, the others all left because they believed what we are
doing is wrong.”
“I can certainly understand that, if the Consortium caught you you’d
be in the Sulfur Mines until your last name day.”
“We’ve prepared a suit. It will allow us to walk into the tank
unharmed.” She motioned to a very heavy looking leather and brass suit
that looked like a retro-fitted deep ocean diving suit. There were 20
individual portholes in the helmet, pressurized oxygen tanks and what
looked like enough protective leather that you could walk into a blast
furnace. “We wanted you to do the honors” She smiled magnanimously and
motioned towards the suit. Several things happened very quickly.

First, while she was smiling I noticed a flicker of movement in her
eyes. Then I felt a horrible pain in my head. Right, only one thing
happened, but I’m sure other things happened while I was passed out.
When I came to I was significantly heavier and I couldn’t feel my
face. The steam suit they had made was very heavy and very cumbersome.
As I got to my feet and looked about I noticed I was in a smaller room
with a port hole window looking out into the warehouse. Yennis was at
it, smilling wickedly. She held up a sign:”Open the door into the
chamber, walk inside, come back, tell us what you saw.” When I shook
my head and pointed at the door out she shookl her head “no.” The door
didn’t look like it opened from the inside. The sneaking little brat
had gotten the better of me. I sighed, considered my options and
opened the door.

On the other side of that door was terror. I had been inside steam
tanks before. But never ones that were in operation; they had always
been cold, inert. This was the very definition of chaos and turmoil.
Roiling clouds and gale forces pushed me around, blind as I was. Even
inside the thick suit I could feel the pressure trying to crush me.
Only when I calmed down I realized that I was constantly moving, not
falling, but gently pushed about. I felt hands grasping at me. Outside
the mask I saw luminescent plants and beautiful people. Long equine
faces with soft small eyes of mercury. Their yellow skin was tinted
blue by their luminescent forest. The  appeared to be laughing at me.
I couldn’t tell because their faces had no mouths, no noses. Pulling
at me the baid me sit down and began fumbling with long weak fingers
at the buckles and straps that held my helmet on. I didn’t resist. I
didn’t feel anything when the skin peeled away from my muscle and the
muscle was rent from my bones. No, I went on to join those lovely
creatures to eternaly dance with them in their blue tinged forests.
Humans came from steam? No, steam is our next stage of evolution.