|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
My masks of pulled sugar
And imitating silk
Against your aspects of bronze
My best defense
Is to offend the subtle carvings
Pry at the cracks
Hoping the metal cannot strike back
[I offer this apology.]
Thursday again, and it's sunny and warm. Ten minutes 'til three, I lock up the house and begin my walk. A flame-coloured bag hangs heavily from my shoulder, stuffed with writing books and swinging back and forth with the momentum of my steps. I walk uphill toward the bus stop, every time seeing something new on the way. The plants seem to be a luscious green, happy and moist; Underneath, I see a starved brown matte more fitting of the weather.
Passing the gate, the scent of jasmine swirls with the wind, strong enough to block out some of the car fumes. Meeting the intersection, I skip across the white-band bridge, fearing the consequences of lingering too long: Tons of metal always win over pedestrian right of way. And finally, I find my stop.
I stay a while, knowing I am early and the bus will not be. For a while, I stand there on the sidewalk, glowing in the sun and groaning under the weight of my books. As they pass, I glare at the cars coming from the opposite direction. I s
She scanned the bookshelf. "Rip-Off: A Writer's Guide to Crimes of Deception," she read aloud, arcing a delicate eyebrow. "Armed and Dangerous: A Writer's Guide to Weapons; Body Trauma: A Writer's Guide to Wounds and Injuries… Deadly Doses: A Writer's Guide to Poisons." Pausing for a moment, she turned. "What kind of writers are these?"
Without facing her, I answered, "My kind."
A Fulsome Accipiter
Shadows danced on the walls of the dimly lit tavern. Loud, brutish laughter polluted the air.
New ship must've docked, thought Ame appreciatively.
Nearing the bar, Ame gingerly chose a seat. On most nights, the service would have been fairly immediate, but tonight the waitresses looked overwhelmed and overworked. Indeed, rough looking men and women already filled most of the tavern – each one laughing overly loud and drinking far too much. Eventually, a young girl stood behind the counter opposite from Ame.
"Your poison?" the girl offered, faking a smile.
Pro'ly gets paid to say that, poor thing. "Ale'll do," replied Ame, faking her own smile.
The waitress looked impatient, as if waiting for more. Finally, she frowned, turned, and hurried into the back.
Waiting, Ame took the chance to look around the bar once more for familiar faces. As far as she could tell, she had not encountered this particular crew and had no guess as to their particular business. Too clean to be pirates
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
Keep in Touch!