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[squalus-and-squilla]

A life hardly lived

As the great warrior poet Isaac Brock once wrote, "on this life that we call home, the years go fast and the days go so slow." Time would breeze me by, but the days would be agonizing eternities of torment. A punishment befit of Tartarus, carried forth through each day through years that passed as quickly as a gale.

I slipped away long ago. The pain never stopped but I cauterized myself and blocked as much as I could. I did not know it then, but this was as much a suicide as immolation would be. My soul was dead, and I walked the earth as a corpse. This meant I lost everything, but at least those close to me got to keep the body. A body that was never mine to begin with. Fitting and fair, I suppose.

Yet never have I been content. The pain grew and grew, a harsh reprimand for trying to escape my divine punishment. I could scarcely control anything anymore.

Eventually, some people saw through the facade. They saw the wounded creature nestled deep within the shell. The one that had bitten itself and clawed itself and made itself bled to escape the prison. They saw me.

Through their help, I began to regain my strength. To focus. In an exercise of great difficulty, I pieced my mind back together, and took control again for the first time in however many years I cannot describe.

Eventually, I won. I had grown a soul again, alive, small and flickering, but aflame nonetheless. I had reconfigured the body to be bearable as well. No longer a prison, just a ramshackle hovel. Survivable.

I finally had a life. For a time, it felt amazing. Higher than the highest highs any chemical has ever given me. Better than the sweetest feelings love and tenderness ever provoked.

And yet, it took everything to achieve. No cost was spared, no effort was diverted. I was unprepared.

As the mighty philosopher queen Devi McCallion once asked, "if you got what you wanted, would you still be fucking depressed?" It caught me by surprise. In my naïvete, I thought I had escaped fate, beaten it in fact. But curses wrought from above are not so easily evaded.

I find myself in deep, scorching pain yet again. As if nothing had changed in the first place.

At least I got to experience what normal people do, however brief. And when my soul goes dark again, I will have died knowing what life could truly feel like.

I will die content and with some happiness. This I deserve.

[squalus-and-squilla]

It feels cool.

Like menthol on the tongue, you(?) think.

Arm raises, movements made, fingers stretched and retracted. Motor controls seem to work, better than ever maybe? The fluidity and ease of it seems offputting. You(?) don't recall it ever feeling like this, but also unsure what is remembered at all.

Looking up. The doctor(that much is known) begins to speak.

"We had an easier time getting the flow stable and consistent. The joints shouldn't seize anymore, and hopefully you won't get that pain in your chest again"

Well, that explains it. Maybe. Thoughts still swirl and all is uncertain. Only that which can be seen, the arm in front and the doctor above, remain clear.

"Per your request, we fully integrated your entire system with it this time. No longer just your limbs and abdomen. How does it feel to be the first to have it in every part of you?"

Clarification. That explains it. New hardware with a new power supply. The pronounced and strained veins on the arm don't provoke so much as a single itch. Bizarre. Everything feels right.

More right than ever.

Things start to settle. You(?) aren't fully certain what this form you inhabit is, but the familiarity of it keeps you from anxiety.

Our new home, speaks a stray thought

Who said that? That didn't originate from you... You(?) think? Maybe it did? Does the internal monologue normally sound like that?

As if sensing the unease, the doctor leans in.

It feels uncomfortable, being stared at like a vivisected toad on a tray.

"If we need to adjust or give you more time, that can be done. We could always put you under again."

No, no, no, no, no, thoughts cry in unison. The time is now. Adjustment can be done by one(?)self.

It is fine, I(not me?) can and will get through this my(?)self. It will be okay, this will take some getting used to but already I(I am confused) feel stronger. It's alright, I(I'm drowning) don't want more time spent here, away from everything. It's very bad, I(who???) don't want to go back to sleep.

I(is it?) don't know what to think. Something is different from the other times. Maybe this was a mistake, or maybe not. That voice rings unfamiliar. It is definitely not me, and yet it speaks like me. It feels cool, like menthol running through the veins of my(?) lobes. I(me) am alive again. This feels good.

I(definitely me) pause, hearing the other voices speak. Caution may be necessary, this is still unfamiliar. He should die for even suggesting something went wrong . My body feels amazing.

Gathering everything, I(me) speak. It needs to be in unison. Cracks will show, and others will suspect. I(myself at last) have the form I've always wished for now. I will not let them take it away from me. This was worth it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I am alive at last, in the ways I should've been all along.

I look up, and smile.

"No thank you," I say. I feel perfectly fine. I ready myself to stand up.

"Well, that's good then. It'd arouse suspicion if you weren't seen in too long. We'd catch some real trouble there, nobody else has dared to let Phazon breach the barrier into the brain."

Standing, I brush him off and walk forward, regarding my reflection as I pass by the opaque glass window. My long dark hair is disheveled, it looks fine though. My pale face looks haggard, but it can be excused by lack of sleep. My eyes are backed with a glowing bright blue, that may betray its state, but who knows. Contacts, maybe.

I. Me. It.

I walk out the room, eager to resume life.

It feels better than it ever has.

[squalus-and-squilla]

I tell ya, it was a better time.

The things we were doing, well, you had to see it to believe. I worked in a team of engineers providing the solutions to the ideas of other teams. The Air Force wanted a missile, Boeing designed it, we made the ramjet that moved it. Lockheed wanted a drone to sell, we built it. A new plane was needed that exceeded Mach 2, well, guess who had a hand in that?

I know half these words mean nothing to you, but believe me, I helped make the impossible a reality. Three decades earlier and humanity had scarcely understood flight -  there I stood, at that time, designing things that pushed us up near the outer limits of the atmosphere. Why, I don’t doubt that if things went different, we could’ve reached the stars.

Stars, yes. You know what those are, right? I don’t know what they’re teaching you kids these days.

Well anyways, there was all this anxiety in the world. The Cold War - that one I know you know, c’mon, don’t give me that look -  was ramping up. We had a head start, sure, but the Reds were catching up. Replacing their old propeller bomber fleets with jets as fast as ours at the time. We needed something fast, beautiful. Oh, I wish it could’ve happened. Hell, I wish you could’ve seen it.

Picture this: Mach 3. Two engines, one a turbojet the other a ramjet. Massive radar that could scan half the, well, that one you don’t know I suppose. Loaded to the brim with enough missiles to bring down a whole formation, like shotgunning birds out of the - ah, there I go again. Talking about things you wouldn’t understand.

So, while we were doing that, every other firm in the country was working for similar projects. Missiles that could travel the globe with a bigger payload than a bomber, tanks powered by the same reactors that keep your neighborhood lit, hovercraft to give our boys on the ground an edge. Oh, how I miss it all.

Of course, that was all before we broke the sky.

[squalus-and-squilla]

Someday I will fade into the ever-flowing river of time

When that day comes

When my mind shatters into millions of pieces once more

When the ashes of my burnt soul scatter again as they were so long ago on the wind

I will rest easy

For all I will be remembered by are the hearts I touched

The lives I gave meaning to

Even when I struggled to find any in my own

Living for others is painful but there is a reward

And that is that the seeds you plant in their lives will grow forever

Nurturing them for so many years to come

Giving them comfort when they are all alone

A voice reassuring them when all else is silent or hostile

They will never be alone, for I am with them

In this way, among others, I cannot die

[squalus-and-squilla]

Ambient Woman

Woman of vibes

Logarithm of a woman

"A miserable pile of secrets"

[squalus-and-squilla]

The Fade

Have you ever seen it fade? Maybe you have. I think you lie.

Some say it's a flash. A lie.

Others a memory. A lie.

I know what it is. I've seen it. More than I can count. More than would fit on your hand.

It's The Black creeping up, then rapidly consuming you. The throat seizes. The words choke in your mind. A silence. Then sleep.

Sometimes you see white fuzz before, that then warps inward and disappears. Then only The Black. As with the old TVs. Your fate is not too dissimilar.

That's if you're lucky, of course.

Because if you're lucky

You don't wake up afterwards.

[squalus-and-squilla]

The source of all horror

The ultimate nightmare

An inescapable curse

The penalty, death

To live, unbearable

To thrive, impossible

All wrong, all wrong

Don't try, you won't win

You couldn't understand

Agony unending

The shattered dreams

The writhing nights

The haunted eyes

The fractured mind

No hope, no light

No future, no self

Die die die die die die die die die die

Let me die let me die let me die let me die

It obliged

My demise was inevitable

The soul burned

The flesh was left

Ripped open by a force unimaginable

The storm inside, the tempest that never died

That raged and screamed for freedom

And achieved it through an ocean of my spilt blood:

Myself

[squalus-and-squilla]

FALLOUT: THE RIVER OF GLASS

The breeze was strong, blowing strands of hair onto your face. The winds and the currents conspired to make what should have been a two day’s trip down the River of Sant Juan a week-long journey.

Everyone onboard the ship was weary, none more than the four oarsmen who seemed to receive rations fit for perhaps a cat. You made a note to leave a review of this charter when you returned to Jacksonville; plenty of other captains offered this trip, and you doubted any of them let conditions get this bad.

Speaking of the captain, he was teetering anxiously near the bow, as if hoping he would spot the destination sooner. Your entourage of six men sat further amidship. Each one was closely clutching their guns, deeply aware of the dangers that awaited as you made your way south through the river and into the marsh. Despite the whole ship being hungry and sleep-deprived, the men you hired held fast to their job. This relieving thought had given you comfort over the past two days. It was your first time making the journey south, and you were not going to let the desire to scrimp coins overcome the common sense of having some extra protection for your caravan.

After all, the locals weren’t so fond of anyone from the north after last year’s war.

Still, communication lines remained open and couriers were able to transmit messages. Last month, a request arrived from Andytown; a politician wanted a birthday gift for his daughter, requesting a sapling of a white-colored rosebud for her garden. As your network had much trade in lumber to the more devastated regions further north, it took little for you to acquire such a thing. You kept the sapling in a wet bag on your back, too embarrassed to explain such a petty reason for a dangerous journey.

Now, you made the trek in hopes of perhaps reopening the trade routes south. A little networking can sometimes be such a big task.

Suddenly, the captain cried out. Around the bend, the swamps widened again into a lake. You were almost to your second stop of Fort San Ford. The ship had almost made it past the outlet and into the lake proper when you spotted a gar rolling around and some birds flying above it. You hurriedly yelled at the oarsmen to stop, and two of your men sat up, one aiming his gun and another readying a noisemaker to lure the beast away. They’d heard the warnings, but unfortunately it proved too late. The gar must’ve heard the oars slapping the water, as it turned and rushed down upon the boat. Your men opened fire and shot pellets and bullets ricocheted off the fish’s scales.

With a loud crash, the gar rammed the boat. A split second before you could even register what happened, you felt weightlessness then the forceful splash of water. You quickly righted yourself to the surface and sputtered out the liquid in your throat, only to witness the terrible scene of the gar shaking the small boat. The captain, somehow having held on, was desperately trying to spear the beast.

Knowing the commotion could only cause further trouble, you began to kick to shore. You noted some fins rising and joining the frenzy, blood painting the water as you heard the screams of one of your hired guns.

Stepping out of the lake and onto the soft ground, you turned back to see if anyone else survived. What you saw was a gruesome sight, certainly more than you bargained for when you set out. The current was pushing the blood back into the swamps as a tangled mess of scales, fins, and swooping caracaras fought for scraps of human meat.

Clutching your revolver and shaking in the breeze, you said a silent prayer, infinitely thankful that you were still alive and that you could see the fort’s docks in the distance.

Alone, soaked, and perhaps a bit traumatized, you began to walk across the shoreline. You hope you can make it before dusk.