The Walls Between Us, Part 1

It was pretty obvious something was wrong when all the lights on the station blinked out in an instant. Everyone looked up from what they were doing, whether it be observing lab rats or sipping on a pouch of rather tasteless stew. Not that they could see anything in the pitch black, but they looked around anyway. 

They heard something though. At first there was near silence. The hum of the artificial gravity and life supporting systems was still omnipresent, but all the earthly creatures were still and quiet. Instinct ruled in that moment. The scientists of Earth all breathed the shallow breathes of prey, hoping they hadn’t been spotted. 

Two in the mess, clutching their food. Three in the labs, alarmed but unmoving. Two in the quarters, bleary eyed, but aware something is very wrong. They all listen somehow knowing that there is something other than the thrum of their home to hear.

There is a crunch of metal as something impacts and pierces the thin corridor that connects the main sections of the station. Something sparks as it is cut. A punctured pipe hisses. There are no alarms blaring to harken the end of the station. The hissing and popping dies out as the thrum of the station falls silent. 

The false gravity, an imitation made by magnets, fails and everything is adrift. It’s not dramatic in the moment. Objects hang approximately where they started without any force to move it. The crew provides some force. 

No longer frozen, hoping in vain to avoid detection, the humans all move. Suddenly there’s motion and sound as they push off of their surrounding floating through the air. Research equipment crashes in the wall in the lab. Rats squeak as the table beneath their cage is shoved away, sending the structure around them spiraling slowly. In the mess, chairs tumble into tables and packets of food are left floating. The chaos is unseen in the darkness, but the clattering obscures a new low hissing sound coming through with whatever has pierced the station. 

Some of the crew head toward the fresh wound in the hull, the rest jolt away as best they can. One, smallest of the humans, ducks into a storage compartment in the lab. In the sleeping quarters, the two poorly rest crew members scrabble in the dark to find the communications panel that sits dormant. Another human cowers beneath a table, interpreting the banging of chairs into tables as the approach of an intruder instead of her friend’s departure to the corridor. 

❖

The corridor is dimly lit where the wall is broken. I come through the arched door of the mess and can make out the forms of Lisa and Rem drifting in from the lab. Their white suits all seem pale blue in the icy light that peeks through the opening. I want to communicate to Lisa, but it feels too risky to speak so close to the unknown force ripping through the station and the light is too dim to make out her face this distantly. So when Lisa moves, pushing off the wall, toward the center and the light, I follow her lead. Rem hesitates in the door, but slowly comes along with one hand gripping the line of emergency handholds on the wall at all times.

The area of the corridor wall that crunched and folded is a rough circle slightly wider than I am tall. The cause of the damage sits in the center. A cluster of ovals of varying colors, each ranging in size from a the size a fingertip to about four inches across, are bundled together in a cylindrical probe. The whole encasement is about two feet across and a set of seven small ovals glow pale blue on its flat face. 

Lisa, Rem, and I all steady ourselves in front of the probe and the crumpled wall. I grip a support braced across the ceiling, my feet dangling in the zero gravity. Rem still clings to a handhold on the wall. Lisa boldly places a hand on section of the broken hull, a mere foot from the encroaching probe. 

“Lisa!” Rem warns in a quiet hiss as the tall woman leans closer to the probe. “Be careful. It may be a weapon or something.”

“We won’t know unless we look. We can’t remove it without killing ourselves. The whole would depressurize the station. If it’s a bomb our best bet is to defuse it,” Lisa says. She’s leaning into the probe’s light and looking at it’s edges. A rubbery looking sealant forms a thin messy line around it. 

I feel a little dizzy. I grip my handhold tighter and blame the zero gravity conditions. I’ll adjust and the sensation will pass. That’s what I tell myself, at least. 

“I don’t think it’s a weapon. If whoever this is wanted to kill us they wouldn’t have sealed the hull around this thing. They can tear through the station’s hull, they don’t need to blow it up,” Lisa remarks. One of the lights flickers on its surface. 

I notice the hissing sound when it picks up volume. It had been there this whole time, subtle in comparison to the visual display. Now it’s too loud to ignore, even as my own heartbeat seems to be a thunderstorm in my head.

“What’s that?” I ask. My voice sounds off to my own ears, slurred and slow.

“Gas,” Rem says. His eyes are wide and reflecting the light as he looks up at me. “How are you feeling, Abner?”

I don’t have an answer to that. The dim light is getting dimmer. One of the probe’s lights blinks out and my vision goes black.  

The Ferryman, Excerpt

There is a river that runs far beneath the earth. It winds its way deeper and deeper the caverns carved by powerful hands. It begins in darkness and ends beneath glitter gems in the halls of death.

On this river there is a boat. It is long and thin and it cuts through the water like a knife would in skilled hands. It is far too long for a mortal man to pilot down the rushes current and back again. But its ferryman is no mortal.

To the passengers he looks skeletal, but that is because shades of the dead see through reality to hidden truths. To living eyes, Charon is a man of rounded features, dark in every way. He seems young in this view because despite the length of his service, he has far more years on the river ahead of him than behind. To the shades’ sight, Charon’s soft parts have been worn away leaving nothing but bleached bone.

Charon has long been worn thin. He has watched too many souls weep over the prow and wondered too long how the river does not flood the world with their grief. He carries the anguish of ever child shade too young to understand where they are. He knows that no hero who bargains passage on the river ever got their happy ending with whoever their dead loved one is. Charon’s world is one of loss and it has long since chilled what warmth flowed in his ichor.

So to the dead, Charon is bones, wrapped in a cloak, taking their coins and watching them lament. To heroes he is a monster, an obstacle, shadowed under a hood. And too his fellow gods, well, Charon is irrelevant mostly. Gods have no reason to see the Ferryman. They do not die and require no ferry.

At least, most never do.

The world changes, even for the divine. There was a time, of course, before Hades ruled beneath the Earth and the Ferryman ferried. Then the Olympians rose and rearranged it all. That’s what it takes to change world of a god: New gods.

————-

Charon did not expect anything to change. The world seemed settled, though how could he know truly? He rarely got word of the gods because the laments of shade don’t typically include updates on divine gossip. 

So Charon was surprised when above his head the ground split open and through the opening came Hades’ chariot. It flew above the boat toward the depths. Charon strained to see Hades or any passenger within the chariot, but the angle and distance foiled his attempt. The chasm above closed as quickly as it opened. Hades’ steeds outpaced the boat on the river and the chariot quickly disappeared from sight. Charon watched the cavern ahead for its return, but it never materialized again. Charon shrugged and carried on ferrying.

Then something changed over the next months. The shades boarding Charon’s boat increased in number, all of them thinner and thinner. Their laments were filled with talk of unbearable cold and gnawing hunger. It didn’t occur to Charon that it was related to his sighting of the chariot, but he noted the change and the chill that settled in his bones with each shivering soul. 

Back and forth Charon went, taking on the starved remains of the mortals at the top of the river and letting them off in the glowing docks of Hades’ domain. Charon tried to move as quick as he could on the downward leg. He hurried the souls off onto the longer dock each time. Then, alone on the river, Charon would slowly make his way back. He lingered in the silence of an empty boat as long as he could each time. The surface-ward leg always was a break from the weeping of souls and Charon never lingered at the lower dock as he hurried to get away from the mortal souls waiting to enter the fields.  

Then one time, as he rushed the wispy, frozen souls off the ferry beneath the glittering gems of Hades, a voice called out to him. 

“Charon.”

In an instant, Charon bundled his cloak around him further and turned to attend to the lord under the Earth.

“My lord, what—“

Charon’s words failed him as he saw that Hades had not come to the docks alone. A goddess stood at his side, dressed in finery and gems threaded through her golden hair. She was powerful, but must younger than the gods Charon knew. Her birth must have been after he took his place on the boat.

“You will take my wife to the surface, Ferryman. In six months time, she will return and you will bring her back here. You will treat my queen with the respect she deserves I am sure.”

Charon nodded and bowed, gesturing for the Queen of the Dead to board his boat. He kept his eyes averted as the two deities said their goodbyes, but he heard Hades’ last soft words.

“Farewell, my dear Persephone.”

Charon heard no response from the goddess, just a long pause before her weight settled onto the boat. The vessel rocked in a way Charon was unused to. The shades have no weight to jostle the boat. 

Charon glanced up to be certain Persephone was seated safely. Then he glanced to Hades, but the god had already turned his back. Charon pushed off from the dock slowly. He watched Hades walk away and knew Persephone was watching, too.

The Whitman You Don’t See in School, Part 2

Today’s Whitman poems are some of my favorites. I adore a good love poem, as you may have gathered from my writing on “Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances” back in part 1 of this series, and these two are some of Whitman’s best. I first read them back in middle school (not as part of class, I’m just a nerd that reads poetry for amusement) and they are probably what convinced me that Whitman was the best poet I’d ever read. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!

This portrait of Whitman from 1860 was included in some editions of Leaves of Grass. Whitman himself didn’t remember this photo being taken and there was some argument about when it was from. The image and it’s story can be found here.

When I Heard at the Close of the Day

This poem is sweet and true and lovely. It was published first in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass and Whitman had some notoriety at this point. He had earned praise from well known figures (as well as some scorn). You’d think “plaudit from the capitol” would be a cause for joy for a writer, but Whitman claims here that news of this praise does not make him happy. What makes him happy is the knowledge of his lover is returning to him. Even the just knowing he can expect his arrival lights up Whitman’s day. The praise from the capitol is dim in comparison to the light his lover shines in his life. 

This poem doesn’t have intricate phrasing to dissect or deep metaphor to explain, but it rings with truth even in that simplicity. It is a poem that is easy to understand and feel. I think it sounds beautiful out loud, as well, in a way that free verse isn’t necessarily constrained into. This piece shows the power of unfettered words.

What Think you I Take my Pen in Hand?

This particular verse combines many of the aspects I love about Whitman’s poetry as a whole. It directly addresses the reader, it makes the common place important, and it revolves around love. This poem is not a love poem in the same way that “Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances” or “When I Heard at the Close of the Day” are, but still it is about love. 

The opening sets a rather sweeping and majestic scene of a battleship and a cityscape, which at times Whitman does record. The sparse details to me bring to mind a distant view, a camera panned out and prepared to zoom in on some action befitting these scenes. But Whitman isn’t here to record the battleship at sea or the bustling city. Instead, we zoom from these epic subjects to a small and quiet moment. Two men are parting, one to go to sea and one to stay. It is the kind of moment that a passerby may not even notice, but to the two involved it is unforgettable.

The comparison between epic scenes to this brief exchange of two strangers may seem odd, but Whitman has a point with this juxtaposition. The parting of the two men has importance, just as the battleship and the city do. He takes his pen in hand to record the most important piece of the scene he could: The parting embrace of two who clearly love one another. 

Warm for Snow, Part 1

The springs here are more brutal on a person than the winters. In winter, the snow and biting cold make the base seem like a cozy alternative to braving the elements. The hills are painted in forbidding, obscuring white and cabin-fever is cowed by the rational fear of getting lost in the blizzard battered landscape and never returning. But in the spring, the pale blanketing melts slowly and the cloud cover brings rain instead of flakes. The deep purple and red terrain is exposed and the faint reddish-orange sunlight lightens the sky in the afternoons. The first buds of plant life sprout in blue and green and a cooped-up human may be tempted to venture out.

Gos is far too experience to give into the longing, but he looks out the wide windows anyway. The thaw came early this year—tauntingly so. Gos watches the rivulets of rain sculpt sculpt a new path down the ravine and startles as Aver sits beside him on the bench.

“According to the the records, this is the earliest spring in Alpius Valley in nearly a decade. Maybe the expedition to the Honeycombs will be able to set off early,” Aver says. He’s watching the rain with clear excitement. It’s his first spring in the valley and Gos sighs at the young cartographer’s naivety.

“It won’t be early. The thaw may be early but it’s plenty cold out there. The summer won’t be rushed and spring here is always long. This one will just be longer,” Gos says, eyes still locked on the world beyond the window. Aver seems unfazed.

“It’s getting warmer, though. That’s worth something isn’t it?”

“I supposed. It’s too warm for snow know. Still cold enough to kill.”

“Only if you stay out there too long. It’s no longer a frozen hell-scape,” Aver says with a smile. Gos shakes his head, a frown engrained on his features.

“The mudslides can trap you even if you step lightly. You don’t have to go far to find yourself dying in the wet and cold.”

Aver’s cheer finally fades. It rushes from him and leaves him looking smaller next to the valley native.

“I know that, Gos. I read the reports.”

Gos just gives a vague hum of acknowledgement. They listen to the rain against the the glass and metal that defends them.

“Don’t you ever wonder what happens out there in the spring? What the creatures are doing? Which of the plants flower in the spring? What the valley looks like waking up?”

Aver’s voice is quiet and soft. Gos smiles at the questions, sad and wishful.

“I wonder. But I’ve learned from experience it’s not worth the risk.”

“That’s bullshit, Gos.”

Gos’ attention whips from the window to Aver. The anger is unusual on Aver’s frame but he wears it comfortably.

“Is it, Aver?”

“Yes, Gos, it is. People have braved far more dangerous places for far less reasonable causes. All we need is a plan. We have the gear we can make the preparations. We just have to be braver enough to try!”

“And if we fail? If I let you lead an expedition that, like every spring attempt before it, disappears, what then?”

“Then I will have truly devoted my life to the valley. If I die having seen something no one else has seen, it’s worth it, Gos.”

Gos is silent for a long beat, his gaze trailing off towards the window but unfocused on the view. Aver fidgets and breaks the silence.

“I’ve trained for this, Gos. And maybe I didn’t grow up n the valley, but I grew up in the Parna Wetlands on Mee-an and we hardly had a proper settlement like the valley’s. If anyone can pull it off it’s me.”

“I know, Aver. That’s why they hired you. I think the directors are crazy for doing it. How the expect me to send you and a crew out there to die is beyond me.”

“We won’t die!”

“You don’t know that!”

Aver stands and block Gos’ view of the window. Gos reluctantly looks up into Aver’s eyes.

“You don’t know that we will, either,” Aver says, low and determined. Gos’ resolve breaks. He looks to the floor with its worn wood marked by countless footsteps.

“Fine. Send in your proposal. Request your gear and organize the team. I want six people on it, and two of them have to have medical training.”

Aver’s excitement returns with joy mixed along with it.

“I can make that work. Me, Dr. Thormac, Rah Mola, Boots, Pallas, and—“

“And me.”

“Gos?”

“I’ve sent plenty of teams to their deaths and I’m not watching another leave without me. Now, go, Aver. You’ve got work to do.”

Aver nods and the boards creak as he hurries away. Gos stands and stares out the window. He watches a stone tumble down the ravine, loosened by the steady constant rain.

The Whitman You Don’t See in School, Part 1

Engraving of Walt Whitman found in some editions of Leaves of Grass. Image found here and I recommend clicking through to read a bit about it. It’s surprisingly interesting in my opinion.

Most people, at least in the USA, have encountered the poems of Walt Whitman. At some point in school, a teacher assigned you something from Leaves of Grass and you probably read it and moved on with your life. I’m here to tell you to give a bit more time to this great American poet. I was very discontent with the treatment of Walt Whitman in my Junior English course back in high school because it barely scratched the surface of the man’s genius and misrepresented his ideals. I find it hard to believe that other schools didn’t have similar faults in their curriculums.

I’ve loved Whitman’s poems since I was a kid. I always have Leaves of Grass at hand, downloaded on my phone so I can flip through it wherever I’m at. however, I have not read every poem all the way through (yet) and I understand why some people may find the schoolbook presentation of Whitman impenetrable or uninteresting.

I am guessing that most schools focus on Whitman’s most famous works: O Captain My Captain, Song of Myself, and I Hear America Singing. I love these poems and they deserve your attention, but I think Whitman’s true strength shines in some of his lesser known, quieter pieces. Whitman told humble stories of people easily over looked, wrote notes filled with emotion, and spoke to the reader directly with timeless sentiments. His longer and more famous works have these qualities, but there are plenty of other examples within Leaves of Grass that are more accessible (and more exciting than pieces acceptable for a classroom).

So I thought I’d lay out my own list of good, lesser known poems of Whitman and why I think they are worth your time. I quickly realized that this would take more than a single blog post, so this will be an ongoing series of posts celebrating lesser known Whitman poems.

Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances

This is one of my favorite Whitman poems of all. It may take you a few tries to parse the beginning of the poem. That’s intentional, I’m pretty sure. The beginning speaks of overwhelming doubts about the world as the individual perceives it. We can never know whether someone sees the night sky or the colors of our world the way we do (or don’t). If you think about it too long, these kind of thoughts that make your head spin. The poem embodies that feeling with twisting phrases filled with parenthetical comments.

But the turn comes in the last third of the rambling poem. The convoluted phrasing fades away as Whitman explains that when he is with who he loves most these uncertainties no longer matter. These unanswered questions cannot disrupt the satisfaction of beloved company. The whole poem is a love poem hidden beneath the initial philosophical discussion. I think it is one of the sweetest love poems I’ve ever seen.

The Meeting of an Era

The disk hovers in the air, just above the pointed evergreens that form an early horizon on the opposite side of the river. A hunched figure strolling through the woods crosses the flowing water without hesitation though the center must be at least four feet deep. The dark furred creature shakes off what water it can as it emerges from the water. Below its waist it is utterly soaked, thick fur clumped and heavy and the beast sighs.

Much farther down the winding course of the river and obscured by a ring of trees, a long necked beast half beaches itself in a clearing.

The disk’s landing has flattened the grass at the edge in the very same clearing. The beached being stretches in the sun, unperturbed by the metallic object’s glare as disk settles by the tree line. The ferns in the north part and the hunched hominid enters with a heavy sigh.

The hairy brown manlike things beats on the side of the disk. The metal ripples and sounds like bent gong. The unpleasant tone causes the long necked creature to shake its head like a fast swinging pendulum. When a disgruntled hiss emanates from the metal with the muted ringing, the beast stops the knocking. He steps back and falls onto his back into the grass with a grunt.

The disk warps inward and, with a musical pop, collapses into a grey-green creature with a large head and oval eyes.

“You do realize how rude it is to greet someone with blows. You could have at least said ‘hello’ before you started hitting me,” the ex-disk says, gesturing with a long fingered hand. His dark, featureless eyes narrow to affect a glare at the one lying in the grass.

“What would a mountain man, a ‘Bigfoot,’ know about manners?” the creature lying in the grass asks.

“Hopefully more than a lizard who hides in a lake and even I know better, Caesar,” the beached creature says, lifting its head from its lounging position. “I know you were raised better. Show Clarence some respect.”

Caesar shrugs, but his expression is apologetic enough to appease the grey-skinned being.

“Thank you, Ness. Hold on…Where’s Snow?” Clarence asks.

“My brother found crossing the oceans to be more difficult this time around. No land bridges to walk on and he’s not an apt swimmer,” Caesar says. Ness lets out a plume of water in a snort.

“I had no issue making it and I had to drag myself across land on occasion. I wasn’t even seen by the inferiors. Snow is just too comfortable in his frigid fortress to show up for the meeting of the era, arrogant, self-centered fool that he is.”

Caesar shrugs, rustling the flattened grass with his long fur.

“Can’t argue with that. Shall we start our reports, Clarence?”

“Yes, yes, what is the report on Sol 3?”

Clarence draws a silvery orb from his belt. It flashes green for an instant and when the light fades half the surface has turned into a pock marked microphone. Clarence nods encouragingly to his companions.

“The up and coming species from the last era made it to the top of the food chain, but are leaving it just as fast,” Ness says. She shakes her head in a wide slow motion reminiscent of a disapproving grandfather clock.

“They are useless for scientific purposes, too. The tourists around here haven’t been obeying the interplanetary guidelines at all. The language, culture, and abstractions of the ‘humans’ have all been contaminated,” Caesar says, still on the ground.

“Is that so,” Clarence says, shrinking in size slightly in disappointment.

The two Earth observers nod.

“They speak much like we do. In fact, they use some of the same languages we are familiar with. We think that their religious constructs, particularly the major regional mythologies, were created through misunderstood encounters with interstellar visitors. Modern encounters have been labeled what they are: Alien incursions, ” Ness explains.

“Not surprising considering how everyone from Europa to Andromeda seems to consider Earth the local zoo,” Caesar says. Clarence sighs, his large forehead turning into a mass of wrinkles as he furrows his brow.

“Another evolutionary experiment turns out to be a bust. I was so certain we kept the location under wraps this time.”

“Does this mean we can leave this uncivilized planet,” Caesar says, perking up at the prospect.

“It’s not that uncivilized; That’s the problem!” Ness says and slaps her fins on the shore. “You have no interest in the experiment at all. You just want to get paid and head home, Caesar. I would bet my left fin you are responsible for some of the contamination. I hear rumors of humans sighting you every other week.”

“Like you’re much better you ill tempered aquatic lizard. People travel from afar hoping to get a glimpse of the “Loch Ness Monster.” They even named the place after you!” Caesar shouts. He sits up in the grass, one long hairy arm stretching out to point accusingly at Ness.

“Now, now,” Clarence says in a nervous, breathy tone. “I’m sure no one is to blame—“

“Of course, you’re kind and their neighbors are the worst about this sort of thing. Ever since humans pulled themselves up on two legs, ships and travellers have been popping up full of tourists. They waltz around, make a mess and we have try to clean up after them.” Caesar says. He’s on his feet now towering over Clarence. Ness is nodding along with his speech in this case and Clarence’s grey-green complexion is beginning to turn a shade of deep blue. The alien cowers in front of the irate ape.

“As pleasant as this planet is, there is little scientific use for us observers to stay here. If the committee insists on continued observation I’m sure we can convince Snow to watch the humans.” Ness suggests. She pulls herself across the shore into the grass, allowing her neck to snake over Caesar’s shoulder.

“Yes, of course. I’ll arrange transport for both of you at the earliest convenience,” Clarence says fold in on himself at the pressure of their instance.

There’s bright flash of white light from the tree line.

“Wow.”

Clarence, Ness, and Caesar all turn to see a hiker holding a camera. The hiker stands, staring then blinking her eyes vigorously in disbelief.

“Wow,” She says again. “You’re— You— I—“

“Oh no,” Clarence says.

“Another notable quality of humans,” Caesar starts.

“Their knack for being curious at inopportune times,” Ness finishes.

Clarence hums thoughtfully and tsks.

“No help for it, I suppose.” He reaches out one long fingered hand. At his fingertips, a rod the same color of Clarence’s skin appears. He points it to the hiker. She collapses unceremoniously.

“Oh Clarence, you didn’t kill her did you?” Ness asks.

“No, no, just unconscious. I am no barbarian, after all. I don’t look forward to carrying her back with me, but it is for the best.”

“Sure you don’t have room for me?” Caesar asks. Clarence turns blue once again.

“How dare you, Caesar! Its hardly acceptable for an inferior to hitchhike, but you? You know better.” Ness says agast.

“Worth a shot.” Caesar shrugs sitting back down in the grass.

Ness shakes her head in disgust. She drags herself back toward the water.

“If you have no other need for us, Clarence, I’ll return home. I have a long way to go.” Ness says. Clarence nods, waving her away. She descends from the rocky edge of the river and quickly disappears downstream.

“At least you have a proper home hidden in your lake. I suppose I’ll have to move caves. With that one disappearing, humans will be crawling all over this valley,” Caesar grumbles. “However will I bring all my favorite stones with me.”

Clarence hefts the hiker in one arm and waves a goodbye to Caesar with the other, rolling his eyes at the mountain-dweller’s sarcasm. Caesar falls back flat into the grass as Clarence’s form twists back into the disk he arrived as. The hiker disappears as Clarence’s humanoid shape distorts back into a disk.

The grass rustles as the disk disappears once again into the sky. Caesar groans into the empty clearing.

“I’m never doing fieldwork again.”