Stranded

The light was cold. 
In fact, everything here was. The air. The floors. The beds. And, of course, the light. But nothing–not even the sharp, icy-blue illumination–could distract Evan right now. Although his ears felt like they might freeze and fall off his skull, he was too concerned with the task at hand to take even a moment's notice. Expertly sliding through the multitude of useless frequencies, Evan hastily dialed up the only clear channel. He couldn't miss this. A frown briefly crossed the young man's face as the radio cut in and out a little before settling on the announcer's droning voice. Pushing on his temples, Evan kneaded the worry out of his mind. He played with his short, dark hair, waiting, as the announcer aimlessly drifted through what passed for "entertainment news" these days.

  In that short wait, the frigid temperature finally got to him. Evan blew on his hands, which were turning red and going numb. He watched his breath condense and form dozens of miniature, foggy shapes–the only "clouds" he had seen in months. Finally, just before Evan completely lost patience with the grating voice of the radio-man and went back to sleep, where he could at least shut out the headache-causing brightness of the ceiling lights, the station crackled and a brief, introductory theme played over the static-filled waves. He sat bolt upright, and strained his slowly-freezing ears.

  A new voice, deep and rich, rumbled through the speakers. "You are  listening to the McGwire Show! Grab a shirt and get ready to go, 'cause this revolution is rollllling to victorrrrrry! And now, your host, Mr. Garth McGwire!" Evan almost grinned. Garth's chirping pipes and smart-aleck remarks about current events lifted his mood considerably. Besides, news of the Resistance was always welcome out here. However, Evan's lips quickly flattened and his brows knit together as a long, drawn-out pause followed the announcer's introduction.

  When he finally started talking, Garth's voice sounded raw, hoarse and very, very solemn. "This is Garth McGwire. Friends, tonight I bring you word of things on the front." Evan's stomach sank. He had been hoping for good news from home, but something was obviously amiss. "I just wanna let you all know right off the bat that it's not good...not good at all. For the past three years, we've pushed and pushed. Our forces have fought and died in defense of our home. Since the forced nuclear disarmament, our boys with stars have known that the only way to save the homeland was to invite the enemy here, make 'em think we were weak enough to be taken. And, they were right: we caught 'em by surprise. We've kept the invaders muddled on the ground, always staying one step ahead of their movements, vanishing when their tactical weapons reached the front, retaking cities after they withdraw their troops. The enemy has been greedy enough to blindly continue the attacks, hoping to capture, undamaged, the multifold resources we possess."

  Garth sighed with a long, brooding pause. That's when Evan knew something was really, really wrong. He couldn't move, and he felt his heart rising in his throat. "But now, I've just received word that the Resistance lost contact last hour with the larger part of the West Coast, including all of California and Oregon. Most of Arizo-Mexas has gone dead silent as well. Multiple Resistance bases in western Nevada and eastern Arizo-Mexas report seeing nuclear-fallout debris. We can only assume that our long-held fears have been manifested: the enemy has begun systematically eliminating key strategic points, using orbital warheads." As if from a great distance, Evan watched his hands start to shake. Garth soberly continued. "Our remaining armada informs us that these missiles would be stealth-cloaked, undetectable to all radar devices and nearly invisible to our most powerful observation telescopes. If this is the truth, and we must believe that our sources are reliable, then the end of our fight may be nigh. It is with heavy hearts that we mourn those who have given their lives in the fight for freedom citizens and soldiers alike–"

  For the first time in the history of his show, Garth McGwire choked up, sending bursts of scratchy sobs over the airwaves. Evan's brow broke out in a cold sweat, and both his trembling hands jerkily reached up to squeeze his head in a vise-like grip. Garth shakily regained his composure, and went on in a voice thick with emotion, "–including those hundreds of thousands who perished today, no less valiantly than those who died in the attempted defense of Europe and Brazilica. Pausing again, McGwire bit out his next words. "I have a message to the people of Free America: Never forget what it is we fight for. Never forget the taste of freedom. Never forget your dead friends and family. Never forget your former lively-hoods." Here, Garth's voice took on and edge that sent a chill up Evan's spine. "And never, ever forget what the murderous, scumbag enemy did to–"

  Evan didn't remember turning off the radio. He didn't remember leaving the room. And he definitely didn't remember taking the elevator to the upper levels. When he came to himself, he was violently shaking. Dazed, he glanced around to take a bearing on his surroundings. He was alone and staring out a heavily-shielded viewport. His body was drenched in sweat, and his clothing clung to his clammy skin. He couldn't stop shivering. His pulse raced. A rancorous headache pounded on the sides of his head, and his breath came in short, raspy gasps. What was he doing here? Then, he remembered. Home was in trouble. Big trouble. And he was stuck here.

  Almost unintentionally, he gazed out the steel-encased window. It was night, and the only illumination came from the radiant orb hanging in the night sky, which was visible through the circular viewport. The pale glow flooded the floor around Evan's feet in a chilly circle of liquid light. He couldn't see much of the surrounding landscape, but Evan knew that the rocky, barren wasteland would be even colder than the inside of the base–much colder. As he stretched his index finger to feel the frigid window, his headache grew louder, more powerful, and he felt his heart, once again, reach out for home. His eyes slowly turned up toward the source of the cold light. Without compassion, without feeling or remorse, the unforgiving globe stared back at him. With a surge that almost knocked Evan off his feet, pure, harsh emotion completely overwhelmed him.  The world turned black for a moment, then the icy brightness trickled back into his optic nerves. Slowly, he realized that he was violently pounding his head against the view-port. The discordant symphony within his temples had reached a tremendous crescendo. The strain of tonight had worn him thin, and lack of sleep and the cold were finishing the job. Still beating his bloody forehead against the resistant glass, Evan moaned in agonized pain. Tears streamed down his battered face, his shivering intensified, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out. The last thing he did before the frigid night turned an even colder black was take one last defiant glance at the green and blue orb he called home. So, he thought, as he collapsed to the icy floor, this is what it feels like to be stranded on the moon!

Amnesia

Why do I try, can I lie to myself?

Who is this face, that I've put on a shelf?

Nothing is different, yet something is wrong,

Is this a memory or false siren's song?

Can I have known her from some hidden life?

Would she have loved me through peace and through strife?

Staring through storm clouds, she glances my way,

Lightning and thunder can't force me to stay.

How can I stand her when friendship is null?

Should staying close have become my new goal?

Feelings betray us, but yearnings are truth,

Truth tries to tell me to fake it, aloof.

Will we remember when night turns to day?

How will we search out the right words to say?

Dear, do I know you or am I insane?

Dear, I've forgotten some terrible pain.

School's Out - It's a Sunday!

Cooling myself in a puddle of sweat,

Hot were like Cold, I'd be fogged in my breath,

Catching the spirit, my thoughts take a ride,

Could it be fun to have switched these two climes?

Building an igloo of summer-baked leaves,

Riding a sun-sled on scorching hot streets,

Rolling a sun-man of shimmering rays,

Picking his nose out of carrot-red clay.

Tying my scarf to keep sun-chills at bay,
Mittens, apropos for record-high days,

Blowing my hands, chasing heat-waves away,

Let's throw some sunballs, a great game to play!

Stars

Stars

Crystalline, sharp

Piercing, shining, illuminating

Shaping perspectives, revealing sight

Glowing, blazing, brightening

Radiant, glorious

Suns

Struggle of Youth

Can we grasp this life in death?

Will we hold our stolen breath?

Rise, my friends, and gulp the breeze!

Fate will choke on what she sees.

Youth is gone, forever lost,

Stolen treasure comes with cost,

Darkness will not claim our lives,

Living life means making tries.

Let it not be we who drown,

We, the young, are too far gone,

Tracing scars inscribed by tears,

We won't lose to unknown fears.

Llwyn Onn (The Ash Grove) - Performed by Andrew Dawes

King of the Forest - The Child

But as he stares amazed, in mirth,

King low'rs his eyes upon the earth,

And smile transforms to gape.

A tremble shakes his face once kind,

Amazed, struck dumb in shock to find,
Sick death has stained this place.

A family of field mice fair,

Small birds with open, dreadful stares,

Lie prone on grass of green.

Two deer, both young, with flanks exposed

Once gracing wood like friendly ghosts,

Have joined this death-still scene.

Gross, dripping rivers, red and slick,

Entwine together, running thick,

Upon the forest's floor.

This carnage spilled around the Child,

 Soon fills the King with anger wild,

To stand the sight no more.

But all this anger turns to fear,

As Child turns 'round when King draws near,

And bares a gruesome face.

Black eyes, round orbs, of onyx coarse,

Expressionless, without remorse,

King falters in his pace.

Beyond old age, beyond work-tried,

Scabbed wrinkles mar, and scar, and line,

The Child's perverted grin.

Small, rotting teeth, a crumbling score,

Entrench his mouth, a stinking sore,

And drip upon his chin.

Loeschhorn Study 21 - Performed by Andrew Dawes

King of the Forest - The Attacker

Avoiding clearings open wide,

Exposed to sight, poor place to hide,

He walks on toes of air.

Without a sound, the King escapes,

Behind the trees, whose mossy capes,

Disguise their Master fair.

Around he stalks a circle path,

Then spies his foe and halts his tracks,

A man lurks in the briars.

Attacker brash is now the prey,

Invader dressed in colors gay,

What foolish, vain attire!

He smirks, the King, and bites his tongue,
Perhaps this jest was all in fun?
For what sane man would wear,
A crown of weeds and holly reds,
A necklace tied of grassy threads,
And daisies in his hair?

His jerkin died the brightest green,
His tunic stained of blood, it seems,
To be so scarlet bold.
And cushioned feet, with mossy soles,
Revealing dainty, pinkish toes,
No more than five years old.

King of the Forest - Alarm

A streak of dun, some movement vague,

Begins anew another day,

The wood is taking flight.

Faint flapping fills the far-flung fort,
To match the grunting of the boars,
Cacophony of life.

Dank moss resounds with shrieking calls,
Primeval snorts soon fill the halls,
A distant roar replies.
Wide-spreading still to every trail,
This morning rite which never fails,
Enchanting, screeching cries.

And now, he stirs, the Master grim,
He lifts his face and greets his kin,
The subjects of his realm.
Extending palms to hail the dawn,
He breaks the silence lasting long,
And shouts out to the sun.

With one swift leap, he ends his song,
And hastens on new journey long,
The Master's feet are swift.
While breaking branches swipe the air,
And tangling roots are cause for care,
This King will never trip.

But, lo! he stops and glances 'round,
A warning vague, a throbbing sound,
Forewarns, perhaps, of harm.
His heart leaps up, a sudden flash,
Pervades his sight, and then a crash,
Black crows scream in alarm.

Obscenely, from a stripling ash,
Protrudes a deadly, feathered shaft,
So perilously crude.
The forest dark is thick and wide,
Concealing many holes to hide,
To sleep, to eat, or shoot.