For a magazine whose only extensive reference to Star Wars so far has been uncomplimentary it would be hypocritical of Ibn Qirtaiba to get caught up in the pre-release hype over the latest instalment of this science fiction marketing phenomenon. On the other hand whilst budget and spectacle do not make a movie, they don't count for nothing, either. Much of the value of the original Star Wars trilogy lay not in its own rather thin and derivative narrative, but in the well-realised universe it created in which subsequent (official and unofficial) written, visual and interactive works have been set. For this reason at least, as great as George Lucas's own debt is to his predecessors (notably Doc Smith), his achievement is a considerable one which will continue to resound both in its direct spin-offs, and indirectly in the science fiction works it inspires in turn.
This issue contains half as many items as issue 42 but I'm sure you'll find them at least as enjoyable. We begin with a clever modern-day vampire tale from new contributor Jon Hodges. Next follows the first instalment of a fine two-part serial by awarded author Tony Chandler, which ties in nicely with the day on which this issue has been released - Australia Day. David Kopaska-Merkel's poetry concludes this issue. Artwork in issue 43 comes from Jean Claude Davreux, who is a self-taught Belgian artist who paints in acrylic on masonite. His striking and surreal images in this issue are hyperlinked to his Web gallery if you would like to see more.
Short story: Nutshell by Jon
Hodges
The walk from the dorm to his car on the opposite side of the parking lot seemed like an exceptionally long one with almost everyone else already gone home for summer hiatus. Most studies had ended a month ago but select classes ran over with special exams and other forms of evaluation. Had Ian known that Environmental Science required a field study after the final exam had been given to give closure to the course, he would have never signed up for it to begin with. He should have had enough to since not to listen to a statistics major.
The crevices in the aged parking lot gleamed a furious red under the tall lights that had been constructed into the small campus' parking lots. Ian couldn't remember having had any rain that evening. If there had been, it hadn't been hard enough to provoke the trademark drumming on the ceiling of his cramped bedroom. Even if it had rained, that didn't account for the red tint of the liquid standing tranquilly in every crack of the asphalt. But Ian wasn't up for analyzing and there were far too many possibilities to support a flawless excuse.
By the time Ian had reached his decrepit ticket home, his train of thought had altered to numerous random subjects, none linked to the one before or after. He reached into the oversized pocket on his jeans and pulled his sphere of keys from the lint-smothered depths smelling of winterfresh gum and gasoline from countless lighters. He leaned his body against the driver's side door of his car and surfed through the keys, searching sluggishly for the key to the door. When he finally found it, he grasped it loosely and trembled the sphere until all of the temporarily useless keys fell to the lower half of the ring. With an unprecedented smirk, he jabbed the rigid key into the keyhole and attempted to turn it counter-clockwise.
"Not again," he mumbled under his breath as he continuously tried to turn the key in its hole, some mechanism inside broken for the third time in two months. His wrist tired, the flesh under his fingernails white, he callously pulled the key from its slot and began to trudge around to the passenger side of the car. Once there, the key easily slid into the keyhole and turned clockwise until the silver door lock inside jumped up in rapt attention. Ian pulled open the door and reached inside to press on the automatic door lock located on the door handle of the passenger side door. A muted click emitted from hidden springs and Ian proceeded to close the passenger door and swing back around to the driver's side door of his rusted Ford. He climbed in, leaving one foot out in the parking lot, and rose his set of keys to the small light located in the center of the car behind the front two seats. He rotated the collection of keys around again until he found the key to the ignition, which he slid carelessly into the ignition and turned clockwise until the engine whined, sputtered and fell silent.
"What the he-" Ian began before feeling a twinge of body rattling pain run down the back of his neck and to the base of his spine. Before he could bite his lip to mute a painful groan, his vision tripped to black and he slumped over in the driver's seat of his car.
Ian's vision lingered in psychedelic colors before creeping back to normal standards. After gaining some composure, he looked around to find himself still sitting in the driver's seat of his car. The sun was midway through its daily trek and the parking lot remained empty except for himself. He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms back, attempting to loosen muscles tightened after spending the night in an awkward position in his humble vehicle. As soon as the back of his head touched the headrest on his driver's seat, his body rocketed forward in angry discontent, throwing his forehead against the windshield of the car.
Once the temporary blindness subsided, Ian arched his neck to look into the rear view mirror. His skin looked surprisingly pale while the bulk of his eyes had turned a pale blue. A red circle was already forming on the center of his forehead as a smudge of oil on the windshield marked his site of injury.
As his eyes continued to trace his features with undying curiosity and a feeble desire to remember the occurrences of the previous night, an unsuspected knocking came at his driver's side window.
After lowering his heartbeat to its normal rate, Ian reached down and rolled down the window using the manual crank.
"Hey, Ian," Professor Briggs began, his eyes all the while searching the contents of the car. "What are you still doing out here? All of the kids have gone home as well as a majority of the teachers. Why, I'm one of the last ones here and I'm on my way out as we speak."
"I had some things to take care of, Professor," Ian replied mundanely, his voice a deep monotone.
"Please, call me Jack," the professor proclaimed as he thrusted his hand in through the partially lowered window. Awkwardly, Ian reached up with the appropriate hand. "After all, classes are out and you passed my class with flying colors." Jack Briggs snatched Ian's hand and shook it with masked fervor. His wrinkled brow contorted into random shapes as he did his best to smile warmly in Ian's presence. After numerous failed attempts at appearing friendly, Briggs retracted his hand from the depths of Ian's car and crammed it into one of the pockets on his vest.
"Well, I suppose I'll be seeing you then," Jack declared as he began to back away from the car.
"Probably so, with my luck," Ian mumbled under his breath as he instinctively reached to the ignition on the steering column and turned his keys methodically until the engine began. It struck him as odd that the keys were still there.
"What was that?" Briggs asked innocently as he continued to back away on the heels of his Italian leather wingtips.
"Hmm?"
"You said something," Jack persisted.
"You must have heard the engine whining. Sometimes I think it's talking to me, too," Ian lied.
"You have a good summer, Ian. By the way, you have something on your neck," Jack concluded as he bent at the waist subtly and revealed his face to Ian a final time, swiping at the right side of his neck.
Nodding a thank you, Ian released the parking brake, threw the car into drive, and pulled away from his assigned parking space in the shadow of his former dorm. As he crept over the series of speed bumps that led off of the campus, he peered up into the rear view mirror and caught a glance of two black specks on his neck. He'd take a shower when he got home.
"Ian!" his mother shrieked as she shot out of the doorway and waddled across the gravel driveway with her arms spread to a wingspan of some seven feet. Her floral nightgown rustled around her in timed sways of to and fro until she finally reached the driver's side door of his car. Before he could even pull his keys from the ignition, Kay pulled open his car door and launched her lengthy arms into the hazy interior of his car. Cheap cigarette smoke crept out from the quarantined air inside and brushed Kay back enough for Ian to crawl out of his car and shut the door, checking habitually to make sure that it was, indeed, locked.
"How have you been, son?" her crackling voice inquired causing the wrinkled flap of skin under her chin to tremble.
"As well as can be expected, I guess," Ian answered as he dropped his set of keys into his pocket.
The thin flap of skin under her chin flared and bloated with sheer glee as Ian's suave voice tickled her memories.
But without warning, her aura changed, the alteration showing in her beaded brow. A pudgy hand burrowed deeply into the broad pockets on her nightgown and retreated with a bright handkerchief. Once she had applied it to an eager tongue, she darted it towards Ian's neck, her dentures chewing on her lower lip with belligerent intentions.
Ian deftly swayed to the side, avoiding the relentless onslaught of maternal saliva.
"Don't be so childish," Kay whined as she continued to stab the dampened handkerchief towards Ian.
Continuously dodging, Ian replied, "I'm going to take a shower as soon as I get inside and unpacked anyway. And where is Dad?"
The undertow accompanying the change in subject struck Kay in waves and delayed her
instincts. "He's in the garage working on some wood. At this rate, he'll be deaf in
five years. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night only to hear the whining of his
band saw. I think the sawdust is killing brain cells." 
"Can I go see him?" Ian questioned to put an end to her barrage of meaningless banter.
"If you really want but you won't be able to get much out of him. If you don't have a mahogany complexion, you're not worth talking to, or so he seems to think."
"Is the garage door unlocked?" Ian asked impatiently.
"Yes," Kay concluded with a sigh.
Ian escaped from the senseless display of maternal affection and spousal differences to hustle into the garage where his father was, as Kay had declared, working on more wood.
Although Dick's back was to him, he could clearly see him sawing intricate curves into a plank of mahogany. His head was bent over as his arms worked back and forth with motions that seemed instinct. Ian worked his way through the garage, dodging randomly placed saws and piles of wood, until he stood directly in front of his father, only the saw separating them. "Hey, Dad," he shouted over the buzz of the saw.
Dick glanced up from his work, his eyes glowing from behind bulky goggles, and turned off the saw. When the hum of mechanics finally faded into the atmosphere, Dick removed his goggles and wiped the sawdust from the bridge of his nose. "Hello, Son." Refusing to show any affection towards his son, Dick turned on his heels and strode to the other side of the garage, wiping sawdust from his clothes as he went. Without speaking another word to his son, he stepped into the house through an already open door.
Ian quickly ran around saws to make his own way into the house, closing the door behind him. "Same old Dad, huh?"
Dick grunted from his reclined position on the couch and picked up the remote control from the cushion beside him. Without a second thought, he clicked on the television, turned it up to a deafening level, and ceased to blink.
Ian, used to the lack of animation, turned to the stairs and began the all too familiar climb to his old bedroom.
"Son?" Dick called from his place on the couch, his eyes never leaving the flickering screen of highlighted blues and greens.
Ian quickly backed down the stairs and peeked his head out from behind the wall that separated the steps from the living room. "Yes?"
"You have two holes in your neck."
"Excuse me?"
Dick, blindly, pointed to the right side of his neck and repeated in the same monotone voice, "two holes, your neck."
After staring at his father for another dull moment with confusion, he proceeded up the stairs and into the first door on the right at the plateau of the second level.
Ian stared into the bathroom mirror, his index finger tracing his neck, fingertips dipping into two small bores on his neck.
"In a nutshell, you're dead."
"Dead?"
"Clinically, yes." Dr. Bennett backed away from the examination table and tucked his metal clipboard under his arm. He reclined back against the counter scattered with test results and not yet discarded needles, and removed his thin-framed glasses. Instinctively, he raised a gloved hand to stroke the ridge of his nose.
"How do you figure?" Ian asked tersely.
With his eyes closed and his fingers continuing to massage the sinus points on his nose, the doctor replied through continuous sighs. "You have no heartbeat, no living blood cells, and your brain is completely inactive. All of your major organs have been inactive for the past thirty-six hours."
"And you've seen this before?"
"No," the doctor managed through a chuckle, "No. I can't say that I have."
"And how do you suggest I," Ian began to ask before pausing. "Bring myself back to life?"
"Shouldn't there be some kind of specialist for this?" Bennett asked more to himself than to the other occupant of the examination room.
"I can't just keep going like this, can I? I'm bound to die sooner or later."
"You can't get much deader than you already are," the doctor said while allowing a second chuckle to escape his tensed body.
"Well, what should I do now?"
"I'd suggest calling the burial parlor and setting up an appointment."
Ian sat with a stone face while his doctor doubled over with laughter, his own wit too much for him.
"I'm sorry," Bennett confessed while wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Once he had cleared his throat and placed his glasses back on his nose, he pulled his clipboard back out from under his arm and began to flip through the pages attached under the metal clip, scrutinizing each.
"You have an anecdote in there, doc?"
"My only suggestion to you is to keep out of the sun. It makes the body decompose faster."
"Thanks," Ian mumbled sarcastically as he rose and grabbed his hat from the examination table. "I'll keep that in mind."
"So, how did you find me?" the shadowed figure questioned as he stepped out from a darkened corner of the room.
"People," Ian lied, not wanting to spoil the stranger's tough aura with the fact that he had seen his business card at the SaveMart.
"Are you ready for the lesson?" The stranger's voice was unusually deep and cracked with each new syllable. He couldn't see the man's face but he sounded excruciatingly old.
Ian nodded stiffly.
"Then let us go." The stranger swirled what must have been a black cape and threw it over his forearm, keeping it off of the floor and out of his way so he didn't wind up on his face.
Ian followed the cloaked man from the abandoned house that had been provided on the
business card. It was a three-story mansion with each of the windows boarded over. The
front door had been dead bolted numerous times but the stranger had been quick to open it
when Ian had rapped his hand against the hard wood. 
"Be glad you came to me when you did," the stranger began as they strode down the street, all of the streetlights mysteriously burnt out. "A couple more days and you would have wished you were alive again."
It shouldn't have come as a surprise that Ian did wish he were alive again. Every bit of food he tried to eat made him nauseous, his skin had begun to burn in the daylight all too easily, and he suddenly came down with migraines each time he walked through his mother's living room, her virtual shrine for Jesus Christ. A large bronze crucifix had been nailed to the wall beside the window and framed pictures of Jesus lined the walls. A stranger to the house would think Jesus was buried beneath the creaking wood planks of the floor.
"The first thing you need to learn in order to survive is feeding." Before Ian could get in a word edgewise, the stranger leading him through the charcoal streets stopped a bypassing woman.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Can you tell me the way to the nearest pharmacy?"
"Why certainly." The woman spun on the high heels of her black shoes and began to point back in the direction she had come from, her lips flapping perpetually as they gave muddled instructions. The stranger joined his hands behind his back and stood behind her, peering over her right shoulder as he nodded considerately at her directions. As she continued to point, nod, and mumble, the stranger's eyes left the street ahead where the woman pointed and stared down at the woman's revealed neck. Ian didn't have time to protest or warn the friendly lady before the stranger sunk his gleaming fangs into her neck. Her pointing arm dropped to her side and her mumbles turned into frantic gasps for air. Her body paralyzed and her knees gave way from beneath her, rivulets of blood staining the color of her white blouse. The stranger slid his hands under her shoulders and gently lowered her to the ground. She immediately fell back and grasped at the side of her neck, the crimson raindrops flowing from between her white knuckles. Her mouth stretched open in a silent scream as blood began to gurgle up from her throat.
The stranger laughed and backed away. "She's a real live one, Ian. I haven't had a guzzler like this in months."
Peeling his shocked eyes away from the woman lying dying on the sidewalk, Ian shot a glare at the stranger, which was supposed to be of aid to his situation. "This is what I came to be taught?"
The stranger turned quickly, his cape fanning out in a broad sweep. His brow was contorted sharply and his eyes glowed red in the cold of night. "This is how we survive, Ian," he spat with contempt. "Would you rather die?"
"But I am dead," Ian argued, his frantic eyes darting back and forth from the stranger and the woman now quivering on the sidewalk. Ian glanced helplessly around, hoping to see someone else walking the streets, but everything was locked up tight.
"It's novices like you that really piss me off. You don't understand the gift we have been given. You're not dead. You are immortal."
Ian found himself panicking, tears threatening to break through the corners of his eyes. "I never asked for this."
"None of us did," the stranger scoffed. "But I am fortunate to have had it happen. I would have died four hundred years ago were it not for this blessing. I would have never witnessed this sudden growth in the Lord's kingdom."
"The Lord's kingdom? This is not of the Lord's doing!"
"Why can't you grasp this concept? You are now one of Satan's plebeians."
Ian bit down on his lower lip in deep thought, sharp fangs penetrating the skin and drawing hot blood.
"I see you are hungry," the stranger said in a calmer tone. "She lies waiting."
Ian glanced down at the woman, which had fallen still and silent, her eyes only half open. The blood from his lip flowed into his mouth and tasted like ambrosia. He sucked on the wounds and swiped his tongue across the ripped flesh.
"Do not deny your lust. Feed."
The word echoed in his mind.
Feed.
His stomach growled and his throat moaned, the sweet taste of his own blood still pasted onto the roof of his mouth.
She lies waiting.
Ian crouched down beside the helpless victim, her chest still rising in jerky patterns. The smell of her blood wafted into Ian's nostrils sending him into frenzy. His eyes flashed and his nostrils flared. All hesitancy gone, he leaned over his prey and applied his lips around the still fresh wound. Immediately, blood flowed into the hollow of his mouth. His tongue swirled madly over the deep penetrations in her neck, hungrily sucking out each ounce of blood.
As he continued to lap at the fading victim's neck, he felt the cold hand of his professor rest on his shoulder.
"Stop, child. She must live."
Ian shot his head up at the final three words, his mind rotating on its rusted axis. Blood dripped off of his chin and onto the face of the victim he had just devoured the life of so callously. "Live?"
"Yes, even we have morals."
"What was so moral about attacking me?"
"The vampire who attacked you was clearly an invalid."
"An invalid?"
"Not only do we have morals, but we have a classification. Some revellers refuse to become a member and go about feeding on whoever they please. Apparently, you were just the closest vulnerable target at the time."
"Am I an invalid?"
"Until you become registered, yes."
Ian let a short laugh escape his lips and shook his head. "This must be a joke. A guild of vampires?"
"It is no joke," the stranger retorted, his eyes threatening to glow a second time. "The guild, as you call it, is a way to keep a check on everyone we can. We try to keep all of the invalids off of the surface but find that it is rather difficult."
"Off of the surface?"
"We tend to bury them alive."
"And that kills them? I've never heard of bur-"
"It doesn't necessarily kill them," the stranger interrupted. "But by the time they dig themselves out of a twenty foot hole, they're quite willing to adhere to common policy."
Ian glanced back down at the woman lying on the sidewalk and rubbed his temples, his lust gone but his stomach painfully full. With his tongue, he could feel that his fangs had dulled to their regular shape.
"Come, son," the stranger said, throwing an arm around Ian's shoulder and pulling him away from the feeding scene. "We have many more lessons you must learn before you begin to survive on your own."
"And the woman?" he inquired, looking quizzically over his shoulder.
"Her wounds will heal."
Back to Contents 
Back to Index
January 27, 2188
Diary: Theodore B. Edwards, U.E.S.S. Uluru Maiden Voyage.
Something has gone very wrong.
I am alone, the sole survivor from the explosion. But not for long. Life Support systems have failed, as everything else. In a few hours I will be dead.
But it is not the nearness of death frightens me, that presses in all around me, like some invisible power that chokes me so I can hardly breathe. Or am I breathing the last dregs of good air left, even now?
No, it is fear. Fear...and loneliness.
Unlike any explorer before me, I alone take the thankless honor of being the loneliest human in history. In the uncharted and unknown depths of space, unable to return to Earth, I sit amid the darkened corridors of my dying ship. To die alone. And I don't even know where here is.
So, that makes me the most lost explorer too.
I never have liked to be alone. But here I am, untold light years from another human, the deep blackness of silent space staring at me from the unlighted portals. Silence. Not even the artificial, lifeless sounds of the ship or my beloved computers.
Silence. Darkness. And the silence seems to grow, to roar in my mind. I never realized how loud silence can be!
My only friend, my only solace, is the solitary beam of my flashlight against my pad
and paper as I write. It is my only link to sanity right now. As I wait... 
Why couldn't I have died with the rest! Why couldn't one other have lived, to keep me from this dark loneliness? For to die alone must be the greatest of tragedies.
They died together, selfishly.
My only hope is that death will come soon. And yet, where there is hope...
No. There is no hope of rescue. This was Earth's first attempt to exceed the speed of light. There are no other ships like the Uluru back home to come after me. She was the prototype. And even if there was another ship, how would they find me in time! How would they know where to look?
So, I will die out here, surrounded by the vast emptiness of space. As I stare outside the porthole, I recognize no known constellations, no familiar stars. Nothing.
There is one star nearby, I can see it outside the port viewing area. It is red in color, the disc I can barely make out. So, it must be close. And even though its light is faint, it gives me just the faintest comfort from the darkness, and my loneliness.
All systems are down. I have just returned from a quick survey of this portion of the ship. It is a dead ship. The air is harder to breath. The darkness presses in.
I have no reason to say good-bye, I have no one to say good-bye to, back on Earth. They made sure of that when they signed us aboard. Either the few relatives signed off on any legal rights, or like myself, we had no relatives to leave behind. Fewer lawsuits that way. Keeps the profits intact, I guess.
Everything started fine. Of course, I know nothing about the new engines or the mighty processes that powered them. But I know they fired up just fine. I watched some of the readouts in my area. Hours passed. When the officers suddenly left my area, I was sternly ordered to stay put. I wanted to go, but I stayed. I knew something was very wrong.
There was an emergency venting of anti-matter, I saw that message. That's about all that I know before everything started to fail. It happened at full speed. And then the massive explosion.
I wish I knew more. Maybe it would help, if anyone ever reads this.
The main computer room was sealed off from the rest of the ship. That's what saved me from the initial release of atmosphere until the ship sealed off the breached sections. Battery power must have taken over immediately. I must have been knocked unconscious. Sometime later, after I had regained consciousness, I walked slowly through the sections of the ship still accessible to me. Only then did it dawn on me that I was the only one left.
It was a very bad feeling.
January 28, 2188
I did finally eat something, I think it was roast beef mush. It probably was my last meal. I will go to the port view screen and watch the red star and its faint companions until I join the rest of the crew. After I write this last little bit.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I have known loneliness in my life, but I have never felt so alone as now. Looking out at that black emptiness, faintly dotted with those faraway pin-points of light, the loneliness threatens to overwhelm me. I am shaking so much that I can barely hold the pen to write this. Perhaps it is the cold, I cannot seem to get warm anymore. I hope the end is near.
Something strange is happening! Some of the stars have gone out! I thought I might be hallucinating, but I suddenly saw one go out right before my eyes. It was so fast! What is happening?!?
I am shaking uncontrollably. The cold seems to be gripping my very heart. My breath is a white vaporous cloud and it hurts to breath too deeply. All of the stars have disappeared now, even the close red one. There is nothing but a stygian blackness outside. My penlight is low as well. So is my life. Maybe I am already dead.
It is a ship!
It is alien.
It has drawn close alongside. Strange orange lights flood towards me. I can see an eerie orange glow reflecting back on the winding, gnarled, snaking contours of the ship. It's color is black. Ribbons or bands seem to wind infinitely around and around the overall oblong shape of it. It is huge.
I wonder what they will do.
I hear them coming. Strange scraping sounds mixed with loud snaps. They're getting louder. Now I hear a high pitched buzzing sound!
I have tried to stand, but I keep sliding back down somehow. I wish I had a weapon, but I don't think I could use it. My hands shake too much.
I am afraid.
January ?? 2188
I do not know where I am or how I got here. I do not know how much time has passed. But I do know that I am no longer on the Uluru.
The room I am in is round in shape, there are no corners anywhere, like the inside of a hollow egg. Where I lay is flat, but all around me the room curves upward to another slightly flat area directly above my head. There is a pile of food packets next to me, enough for several days. My spent flashlight, a pen and my notepad are the only other items here.
But at least I am warm.
Second day.
I have met the aliens.
They look more comical than frightening. I am glad of that.
They walk on three long spindly legs, each about two feet in length, which connect to a round black body about three feet in diameter. Hundreds of small rubber-like tentacles encompass it's body, each about six inches long. Among this ever waving throng seven longer, though not as long as the legs, stick-like arms protrude. These seven appendages remind me of a spider, though the three legs seem much stiffer and bend outward about halfway down. There is no semblance of toes or fingers that I can discern. I can't tell if they have eyes, though there is some kind of black globular mass near the very top of the little round body which they seem to point at each other. I have seen at least three small openings that could be mouths.
Thank God that they don't seem to have sharp, pointy teeth.
I believe I scared them. I didn't mean to. As several of them crawled into the room I stood up. The rearmost one quickly scrambled back out of the circle door that had suddenly opened to let them all inside. The other two froze as I rose above them, except for their hundreds of waving appendages, which really began to wiggle.
I felt my heart sink in disappointment as they drew near me. I tried talking to them, and I think they tried to talk back. But all that I could discern were high pitched humming and whining noises coming from them. They move in quick, jerky motions. And they are always moving about, except for the moment that I scared them. They seem to have a metabolism similar to humming birds.
Funny, I have never thought of myself as important. And yet, here I am, the first human to meet an intelligent race. Of all the billions who ever lived, I will represent my kind.
It scares me a little. These beings may judge the whole human race by what I do now. I will have to show them our good qualities such as love, intelligence, cooperation and the like. I will do my best. I just hope my best is good enough.
I hope they can learn to communicate with me. It may be difficult for me to learn their humming language. And though I am no longer afraid, that heavy feeling of loneliness is again weighing on me.
Earth is far away, and I have no one to talk to.
Third day with aliens.
They hurt me today.
I was shot first with some kind of spray. I panicked when I realized that I couldn't move anymore. I watched helplessly as they took their instruments and gathered around me.
They used them on me.
I wish that I could have been unconscious, instead of being able to watch everything. I wish I could have run. I wish I could have screamed.
It is night now as I try to write this. They sprayed me again just before they left and now I can move, though even the slightest movement causes excruciating pain.
I cannot put my clothes back on.
I lay curled up naked and shaking with the pain for a long time, going in and out of consciousness. Blood seeps out of every orifice of my body. Before I could put my pants back on, my underwear was wet with blood. Even my tears are stained red as I wipe my shaking hands across my swollen face. And the pain inside my body, where they probed. I must sleep...
I am awake again.
My eyes are swollen almost shut, the throbbing pain of my torn sinuses
keeps me from even sitting up. And a loud humming must mean my eardrums have been damaged.
At least the rest of my body, and my bloody wounds, are numb now.
I lay here trying to write again, unable to sleep because the pain wakes me, wondering if it might have been better to have died with the rest.
If I could only communicate with them! I could tell them that they hurt me.
That is now my goal, to talk with them. After all, I am the first human to meet an alien race. It is my duty.
I only wish I knew what to do. What is the first step??? I must observe them and find a way.
Maybe, when we learn to talk, I can get them to take me back to Earth?
I will try.
Day Five?
I think they worked on me again, but I am not really sure. Maybe I just slept an extremely long time due to the pain. Anyway, I feel a little better though my side is extremely sore and my nose is completely stopped up. I breathe awkwardly by mouth, and I can feel a heaviness inside my sinuses. It is burden almost to breathe this way.
One of the aliens is with me. His three legs are bent up under his body, so he seems to be sitting and watching me while I write and eat my breakfast. Or maybe he is asleep?
I will try something.
I flicked my pen towards him and it fell just short of him. The short hairlike appendages moved all at once and then stopped. He used one of his seven arms, encircled the pen with the tip of one of them, and threw it back at me. His throw was short too!
He imitated me!
I am now writing down the letters of the alphabet. And two words. I am going to try communicating.
I don't know if it worked or not.
I showed him the word man and then pointed to myself. Then I showed him the word alien and pointed to him. For the first time, they really reminded me of a black basketball that can walk. It remained totally still while I pointed and spoke, again and again.
I probably should have showed him the word stupid and pointed to both of us.
I just tried again. He stood very still when I drew close and then I pointed to that mass on top of his head with the sheet of paper. Then I carefully enunciated the word man and pointed at myself.
He didn't even make a sound.
Then I pointed at the word alien and started to point at him when he suddenly leaped into the air and backed into the wall. I think he must have been disappointed when the circle door did not open because he began tapping with several of his seven arms on the wall quite rapidly.
The door opened seconds later and he jumped through it but seemed to hesitate halfway through.
I crumpled up the message and threw it through the door which shut after it had landed near him.
I must have done something wrong, but I don't know what. Well, there is nothing else for me to think about or do, so I will try to think of some other way of communicating with them.
Poem: strata © 1998 David Kopaska-MerkelEach hole sunk
uncovered ghosts:
plaster doll's foot, pill bottle,
charred bone.
They began to lay their own
strata in the centuried soil.
Gifts for the nonforged hoe.