Friday, October 27, 2006

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XXV) Wanka Warrior's Love in Spanish and English

Poets & Poems
The Globetrotter Poet
(A Journal by: D.L. Siluk)) Part XXV))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-27-2006]



1.

The Wanka Warrior’s Love

O’ lay her softly where the songbirds are nesting
For now is the time for resting,
For her whose heart was sad.

Gone is her grieving to a place forgotten,
And unseeing,
Neither roses nor the sun.

Deep was her sorrow and her slumber
Her heart, forgotten on tomorrow
And on tomorrow’s sorrow.




Spanish Version


El Amor del Guerrero Wanka

O’ ponla suavemente donde los pájaros cantores anidan
Por que ahora es tiempo para descansar,
Por ella cuyo corazón estaba triste.

Su congoja se fue a un lugar olvidado,
Y oculto,
Sin rosas, ni sol.

Profundo fue su dolor y su sueño
Su corazón, olvidado para mañana
Y en el dolor de mañana.
2.



Slaying of the Wanka Warrior

On a far night, on a far mountain,
under twilight, the moon swung cold
and dim—
I lay upon fallen leaves, as trees
swayed overhead.

Fainting, I dreamt of her lovely face:
but she of mine no more…:
a Wanka Warrior had I been,
but dead, I was no more!

She buried me in spring, a pale
star, I had been…:
on a far night, on a far mountain,
under twilight…!


#1466 (9-17-2006)


Spanish Version

Asesinato del Guerrero Wanka

Durante una noche lejana, en una montaña lejana,
bajo el crepúsculo, la luna giró fría
y débil—
Me tiré sobre hojas caídas, mientras los árboles
se balanceaban en lo alto.

Desvaneciéndome, soñé con su cara encantadora:
pero ella con la mía nunca más …:
¡un Guerrero Wanka yo había sido,
pero muerto, no lo era más!

Ella me enterró en la primavera, una estrella pálida,
yo había sido …:
¡durante una noche lejana, en una montaña lejana,
bajo el crepúsculo …!


#1466 (17-Septiembre-2006)

Poets & Poems (by Dennis L. Siluk)) Part XXIV) Our Last Conversation (The Unmentionable)

Poets & Poems
The Globetrotter Poet
(A Journal by: D.L. Siluk)) Part XXIV))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)[10-27-2006]



Our last Conversation
(The Unmentionable)) Poetic Dialogue))


It seemed that she had composed herself for sleep
(or perhaps something more deeper)—:
“You’re not going away (I hesitated to say)…are you?” I murmured.
“Not far.” She replied.
“Stay with me,” I said.
“Another time,” she commented.
“You’re going to sleep!” I stated.
“I’ll feel better when I wake up, I don’t want to go to sleep, but…”
her eyes half opened, she fixed them imploringly on mine.
“I simply must go.” Hearing that, my fingers had clinched themselves onto the white hospital railing of the bed.
“I wanted to go home yesterday, but the taxi driver just rode on by the house,” she said, disappointed, a ting sad—looking for some kind of confirmation.
“It was a dream mother,” I said, with a regrettable voice (my heart broken, not by choice), “just a dream, you’ve been here all the time.”
“Good heavens,” she then, looked at my worried face.
“Don’t worry son, I’m all right with dying,” she said it boldly, and stern, the way she lived for eighty-three years. (I knew it was bound to happen, soon, but who is really prepared for such a day? I don’t know.)
The next thing I knew she was sleeping (she slept for three-days; she’d never wake up).

It’s all over now—like a bad dream
It will never be the same (like we were before).
I think she remained a few minutes longer to assure me
The unmentionable was all right to mention—
(that death had no sting, for her).

As I bent over her bed—the blood in her arm, still warm,
I wept, “It’s ok,” I said, “go see the Lord
I’m sure you’re anxious to, and he’s been waiting.”
I could feel that last trace of life fading—
Now, like a dreamless calm, everything settled
In the hospital room.

#1539 10/27/2006

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XXVII)Writing Porse Vs. Poetry [and: Grammar]

Poets & Poems
The Globetrotter Poet
(A Journal by: D.L. Siluk)) Part XXVII))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-27-2006]



Writing Prose vs. Poetry in Plays
[The Fingers of Grammar]


I have written plays in poetry, and in prose, it is by far livelier, if not more spontaneous also (and a greater achievement, more complicated), and more complete with emotional triggers, to have it in poetry vs. prose.
Prose being undoubtedly the more thin, or soupy of the two, even Shakespeare knew this of course, as did Homer. Perhaps the trick in producing this kind of play (added with dialogue) is to feel inside of you the words as they come out side of you, and as your fingers write them down, instead of just writing to write.
Sounds, you must play with the sounds of words, not just the meaning. Sad is sad, in writing with prose, but sad can be debilitating in poetry, if you know what I mean.
A noun equals a name in prose writing often, especially in prose. In poetry a name is often not necessary once said, why? The intensity of emotion is or should be, built in poetry, and therefore, I say, the noun does not need to be in place, the emotion will suffice (plus you already heard the noun).
Grammar once learned, is exiting, but once you’ve mastered it, you do not need it anymore to get your sentences the way you want them, it is intensity you want to seek, and poetry is part of that intensity. Diagramming sentences to be, as you want them to be for the emotional triggers you want to place like bombs here and there, or stanzas in poetry likewise, William Faulkner is a good example of this.

Adjectives use them as you wish, they come and go like mice, they are the things that effect ones interest; too often, the writer over uses them. Which clogs up the story, meaning, the great interest one is trying to hold from page to page. In poetry you use them sparingly, to knock people out, then go on to the verbs. Again I must use Faulkner for a good example, he goes in circles with them too often, and by the time you grab onto its tail, you’ve forgotten what he was originally writing about. Hemingway, uses too much dialogue, you could make five stories out of one, or one story into twenty.

Verbs and adverbs are quite interesting, and can be often mistaken, or they can make mistakes. Nouns are quite solid, and you know what they are, and adjectives, seem to be as they are, but verbs and adverbs are endlessly trying to be whom they are not, a pretense. I suppose it is like human nature, a book would never sell on style and structure alone, it is human nature that people buy. Thus, it is verbs and adverbs people look for. They are the camels on the move, the adventurous. I could get into prepositions, but they do have long lives, and are really nothing in the long run: they irritate me. Articles are like Adverbs they can be interesting. They seem to please; as the opposite of a pronoun cannot please—it is like stale bread. If I were to quote Shakespeare, I’d say: a rose by any other name. And leave it at that.

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XXVI) Of don Fernando and the Devil [1690 AD]

Poets & Poems
The Globetrotter Poet
(A Journal by: D.L. Siluk)) Part XXVI))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-27-2006]

A Poetic-Story

Of don Fernando and the Devil
[1690 AD]

This is of don Fernando and Evangelina

This is how young lovers met,
Glories of a captured day?
In the golden grass they lay
Fernando and Evangelina;
For the kindness and their grace,
Two lovers, so fair of face,
Many sorrows did they bare,
Of the many pains they shared.

Sweet they were, the story starts
Here they met in the City of Kings
(There they won each others hearts),
A dashing nobleman, of rank
(Evangelina, a fine bride to be):
Don Fernando, the gambler
Evangelina, the beauty.

And so the Tale must be told:

How the swashbuckler, gambler, Don Fernando de Vergara gambled his wife away. Whom women besiege before he met his love, proposed to her, and married the youthful beauty, the Limena, Evangelina Zamora. They did at first find life to be marvelous, until a mortal issue appeared—but I am getting ahead of myself, let me tell you about her. Her hair was lightening black with little curls, richly, and many looked upon her; her body shapely, and she was well educated; in Don Fernando there was no evil intended at all, but as we will see he was overtaken by the moment, and Love, who was his great master, did not win.
Evangelina, was by far the richer of the two, and protected quit well by a guardian, and one would think by looking into his heart, love would prevail over his vice, but it is always self-interest and human nature, that does, does it not? In her breasts, the young soldier and nobleman won her love to life. In a half decade that followed that great day of marriage, Fernando had forgot his old disposition, he found happiness in his home, wife and children, faithful to the heartbeat, he was the captain of her soul, she a devotee of his.
But old habits are not always forgotten, some are simply misplaced, or pushed aside, and become alive when triggered. With a feverish old desire comes reality, gentle and courteous it may start up, even debonair; but as always ends up unconformable. He squandered his wife’s fortune away in gambling.
Friends and companions are always close by when they see a gain, and it was no different for don Fernando, and call it bad, mad, but his luck was not good. In the process of gambling, he wined and dined his friends, especially the marquis, the one whom could talk his language. Call it what you will, but there is little difference between a drunk, a gambler, or a madman, historically speaking, the figures are relatively close to one another. And of course, like so many wives, Evangelina tried relentlessly to understand his compulsiveness, but who can, it doesn’t make any sense, not even did it make sense to Fernando, his so called shortcoming he asked himself, “Why” and even though God gave him grace to figure it out, he did not honor the wisdom.


With good humor, it is fair to say,
Don Fernando, approached his wife
Awake her, ask for her diamond ring
An act he played quite well:
Denying it was for gambling
But, curiosity of some friends,

The truth of the matter, he lost
A large some of money to rival gamblers
Unstoppable bad luck. I’d say
The precious jewel now gleamed
On the fingers of the friendly marquis:
Shame and remorse for Don Fernando.

Don Fernando killed the marquis:
As he fell to his knees on Evangeline’s bed
(For he too loved her before they wed);
To save her husband from a sentence of death
Evangelina had to shame herself,
(Lest her children be without,

A loving father nor any friends);
So, she claimed she was unfaithful.
Upon her deathbed she told this secret:
“I have lost my honor…so my husband
And children could keep theirs.”


10/27/2006 #1538

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XXIII) The Creek of Ranquite (Haiti) [Suspense story] in Spanish & English

Poets & Poems
The Globetrotter Poet
(A Journal by: D.L. Siluk)) Part XXIII))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-26-2006]


The Creek of Ranquite
(The Acropolis of Haiti)) Where was God?))


This creek is in back, and along side of the village, it goes actually in-between Caphatian and the upper mountainous village, called Ranquite. That is where I stayed, but down the mountain, and some 40-miles thereof, is a citadel that sits on top of a hill, built in the early 18th century (1706), where now visitors to Haiti ride up to its acropolis, some 3000-feet to sit on its many iron cannon balls, that was meant to bombard ships that may come in, especially French ships whom would like to enslave the island.
As I was about to say, it is a three-hour ride up and around the mountain. The road is narrow and rocky, and when your two guides rest, you are subject to feeding them a lunch and water, or at least I was back in 1986, with my comrades, some 18 of them, myself making 19 took a trip up to its top. Descending is not the problem, only insuring the donkey’s and guides don’t get tired, dehydrated from the scratching sun, or at least that is what I thought would be the only problem. I thought wrong.
The citadel seemed to be among the thing that would last forever, with its severl foot thick walls, and towering presence. It took 200,000 men to build it, three years, and 20,000 died in the process (trampled to death, child labor, old men dying of heart attacks, starvation, disease, sunstroke, you name it was present in its construction); they worked seven days a week, twenty four-hours a day (worked in the rain, in the heat and the typical normal disasters for this little island in the Caribbean, also took its share of lives. The Haitian Army was going to be prepared for the French, one way or the other. They had thousands of iron balls ready, stacked severl feet high in the courtyard.
I went from Ranquite to the citadel and I intended to stay there for a few nights, it was the summer of 1986. When I first got a glance of it, the towering citadel, looking down upon me, I went into a trance-like state, muttering something to the effect: how come I’ve only heard of this massive enclosure recently? I was dumbfounded that it was not in all the books that had the wonders of the world in them; this should surely have been included I told myself. I would find out in time, it was in some of those books, but not many; perhaps I overlooked it, because it was in Haiti, the most impoverished country in the Western Hemisphere; a sad reason, but perhaps there is some truth to this.
I couldn’t help but picture those 20,000-bodies, —victims, that had died or been killed on this stone invested road that led to the top, to the citadel.
It was a very hot day, that fatal forenoon, going up that hill, or mound, or mountain, whatever one wishes to call it, I hugged the should, lest I fall tumbling down to my death, with my donkey on top of me. One guide pulled the donkey in from of me, the one in back, not sure what he was doing, but I assume he was insuring the donkey I was riding on would not stop. I raised my eyes to the top of the hill, the citadel was massive, and it seemed to cover the whole top of the hill, like a crown, and that moment, that very moment –-

a crushing sound filled the air, as when someone pounds on the base drums, in a closed in room, and echoes came, and I saw, yes I saw the side of the hill, come tumbling down, the side of the roof flew off the acropolis’ main section, with a good part of the bricks, old stones two hundred years old that seemed it would remain in place another two-hundred, ripped out of its sockets, its section blown out tumbling down the side of the hill. I think I said: “One minute (thinking I had that much time to do what I could do to save myself, but I seemed to be frozen in my spot, I couldn’t move, I was paralyzed with the awe of it all, then I thought, “…it will fall onto the road above me, not one me, it did just that, but it buried half of our crew, nineteen of us came, ten were buried, under smut, in the dark eyed dirt, eyes closed, face and mouth gasping for air, unconscious some, bodies twitching, as they, we, the rest of us dug into the dirt to unbury them, as I did the same; an insane moment, that is what it was. What provoked this, I thought as I dug into the dirt, not that it mattered at this split second: shovel after shovel of dirt, a stream of thoughts went through my mind, it went through my mind like the tumbling debris that came down upon my comrades, what page in what book of God’s had this occurred, and couldn’t it have been wiped out, erased, or torn out?

Science

I had been in war, some years earlier—and this was worse. These folks were all good Christians, church-going folks, servants of God. This collapsing and catastrophe of a world monument in a split-second of our lives stunned me, the monument was equal in the Caribbean to the Tower of Pisa in Europe and here, out of nowhere, came a natural disaster, an act of God some my call it, like a giant wave, or earthquake, or something of that manner, but I got thinking, what chapter in what book of God’s was this in? Is it not all written down before hand and if not, why could it not have been stopped? And if not, why; and if not are we all subject to what is already written down? And if not, did heaven forget to look in this direction this very day; I know God does not need sleep, but many were thinking this day, he was sleeping. It was not the first time something so drastic happened in front of me, to the contrary, it was the third, or forth. Depending on how one measures severity, and perhaps number five for me.
Not sure if this could be weighed on a scientific scale, or mathematically, to the contrary. It was not a one in a million shot; even Los Vegas would not have put odds on something like this happening. But there I was looking at its results.

Ranquite

—I went back to Ranquite after all this was over, and remained there in the small village where I slept on a bamboo rug on the floor of a Baptist church, for a number of months, thinking about this; dreaming about it, trying to just put it away. Sometimes we’re not suppose to know everything we wish to know, I guess I felt this was one of those secrets, one you leave in God’s hands, and try to go on with life as best one can, lest you go buggy trying to figure out God. I didn’t need to establish the fact, God allowed this to happen, He did; I say this of course with all due respect (there is always the questions: when should He get involved and when not; and I suppose often times when he does, people say ((or have said): He should stay out of our business, if he had, we’d not be in this mess, so he gets it going in or coming out), and for myself, I’ve established the fact, there is a God. If not, this would not bother me so much.
This village I was in, soon forgot about this happening, as often they do because they’ve lived through a lot of catastrophes, storms and winds that tare their huts and farms apart; storms that kill their livestock. This was just another happening to them, except of course for me, it was different; I’m sure the lives of their loved ones were as precious to them, as the American lives taken were to their loved ones.
I wish I could look at or into the Book of God, or into the book God has called, “The Journal of Earth,” and see just how it is set up, but that is not possible, at least not now. It would be interesting to find out how he picks and chooses: if indeed he does. It is not in the equation, he can, for he surely can, it is if he wants to, more so.
I once found a book of most highly interest to me, it was written in an old style language, and translated into Ethiopian, and read to me, it dated 200 BC: it said something to this effect: Abram confronted God on this issue, and was taken up to him by some angels, and God showed him around the earth, how it was, it was of course at Abrams’ request, and prior to his death, or departure, a wish before the end. And as Abram saw what he saw, he protested to God, because God was allowing a lot of misdeeds to be done, and the culprits to get say. “Cast judgment on them,” he asked, if not almost demanded form the Lord. “Look at what they are doing, these beast of men…” he went on and on, asking, telling God to kill this bad person, and that one, and so for and on. The God said: “You should be the judge, and what you say, will be ordained the way it is.” And thus, they went around again, and Abram cast this man into hell, and that man in to silence, and many more into where everlasting chains for their raping and killing.
Then God said to Abram something like this: are you aware of how long eternity is? Of what you’ve done to these so called bad humans? Do you know how bad hell is, and perhaps if you saw in advance they would repent, but now they can’t of course. Do you realize you took away their only chance to gain live hereafter Earth, what you can look forward to because they done wrong.
No, Abram did not think about that of course, and he wept to the Lord to give them folks a second chance, but God had said, it is ordained they will not return to earth. So what now? Eternal domination was in their pathway, and Abram was the cause of their perpetual judgment. Abram could not stand his own sight knowing this. And God said: I have placed them elsewhere, knowing you would condemn them as you did.

Conclusion:

The question may come up, it has in the past: do people die before their assigned time? (Perhaps yes, possible no.) Can a person turn the pages of the figure? It is like saying: can God write the Bible for every age: for in every time Period, the people of he world feel the Bible is written for them, thus, does God (unknowing to our minds) modify and pinpoint for us, things in it that spell out our period. Yes indeed, he does, and has, and it has been proven to be so. We think it was written a few thousand years ago, when it was really written a few decades ago: I think he sends his angelic scribes and they do a modification on the scriptures, one that we cannot deny, or pinpoint, because it all looks the same. Likewise, why can he not do the same thing with “The Book of Earth”? He can…period!
Yes, we are all assigned to die, accordingly, but the words “if…and…but and God…” remain part of the equation.

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XXII) Epigrams/ Project: Space Tomb[Suspense story] in Spanish & English

Poets & Poems
The Globetrotter Poet
(A Journal by: D.L. Siluk)) Part XXI))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-26-2006]



October Poetic Epigrams #2

3

Literature from the Heart

The whole purpose of literature
is not purely read it,
but to register it in the heart.
Style is simply the oil that makes the
wheels go round.

#1535 [10/24/2006]


4

Good Writers

Most great writers
live in the dignified climate
of their own psyche: creating productions
(Works) that to them are habitual;
to others remarkable...!

#1536 [10/24/2006]




Project: Space Tomb
(Part One of Four)) Reedited))

In English and Spanish


[Launch pad: Cibara-#17]

It looked like a traveling prison, a space tomb to the observers; a heavy bulky projectile for the most part, as if it was shot out of a cannon, a hundred-thousand years ago; rustic and ancient with a technology unknown to scientists on earth. It was in the shape of a pellet, or bullet, a projectile, charcoal black, with a porthole on each side of it to look out. It was under observation for one hundred years. The first year there were lights on, inside it, so the documents read on earth’s daily log. In the projectile were two bodies. Evidently, they had died in there and that was that; and thus, earth left it flow within its nestled orbit around earth’s moon, as it had fallen into it, one-hundred years until this time; this was kind of a gift to the ancient astronauts within the tomb one might say. As I mentioned before, it had been orbiting for one hundred-years, and the telescope that was tracking it was on top of a mountain in Peru, some 20,700 feet high. And after such a time, interest, of over a billion earthlings had considered this bullet shaped tomb, like their stray cat, now found and being taken care of.
This projectile was being watched from earth by a gigantic telescope; the project was called, “Project Space Tomb.” And there were three scientist involved. One from America, Tom Macare, one from Peru, Toño Guedes (head of the Observatory, although Tom, whom got the financing from American businessmen, thought he was the boss most of the time, and hence, fought with the Peruvian—), and Milam Thomas, from England, whom was partly Welsh, so he claimed, was the person who seemed to be putting out the spats between the three, especially Tom and Toño. It was an ongoing research project, data collecting of its motions and chemical makeup, as well as metal contents. One of the goals was to try and figure out where it came from without disturbing the sanctity of the tomb itself—lest they get an uproar from interested groups on earth. Every group on earth, tried to claim the Tomb as belonging to their ancestors (at one time or another): from the Maya of Mexico and Central America, to the pre-Inca cultures of Peru, and all the way to the North American Indians; and from across the Atlantic Ocean all the way to Egypt; yes, even the Egyptians claimed it could be the residue of a lost culture of theirs; and even the Jews claiming it might be part of the Lost Tribes of Israel—to mention a few.
The best scenario they could come up with was that the projectile ship was from, perchance, Mars; but then it would be older than dust. A hundred years now seemed little to no time at all; even 100,000-years did not seem long in such a development. It didn’t seem to fancy them to look beyond their solar system for some odd reason, perhaps they could have pinpointed it, for there was some markings on it that read, Launch Pad: Cibara #17; although it was only lightly visible through the rusty debris attached to the Tomb, and in some other kind of language other than English or even Spanish; a form of hieroglyphics [symbols of an unknown origin]. That is why the Maya archeologists and anthropologists of Egypt figured it could be of their ancestry. Yet, only half of it was visible, and it was more of a hoax, than reality for the people of earth.

In any case, it did fall perfectly into the Moon’s orbit, like a navigated asteroid, making its home for a hundred years thereof. It was now the year 2125 AD, the Tomb as the scientist referred to it, was having its birthday today, July 1; it was now one hundred years old according to earth’s paperwork. The American scientist, Tom, along with the Englishman, Milan, and Toño, the Peruvian, were spellbound to see the Tomb resurrect itself.
The Tomb’s windows in the projectile were no longer frozen, heat had returned to the projectile. It was 99-years since man had seen light within The Tomb. How could this be, Tom deliberated, looking heavily into the face of the telescope; perhaps an alien ship, or NASA had decided to invade it without notifying them—were his first thoughts.
For the most part, He was obsessed with the event-taking place, and his mind shifted from one thought to the next like a child with a new toy. The next thing that took place was the bottom of the projectile had opened up. This was even more amazing for they saw no other spacecrafts about, so, what took place in the tomb? Or better yet, what was taking place. Evidently the beings within the container were obviously in some kind of hibernation state. But how did the two beings survive a hundred years or longer, was the next question that was going on in all three minds of the scientists; if indeed they did survive, and what they were seeing was not a group-illusion. For after years of looking at the Tomb, they all feared they could end up having some form of mass illusions.
—The first year of the 100-year span of them monitoring the Tomb, light was in the Tomb, and each of the two bodies inside the tomb were accounted for; each of the two bodies lay comfortable in two beds within the circumference of the projectile. For 99-years, it was dark inside the tomb, deadly dark, so the whole earth thought.
All said, the American scientist Tom Macare, of the observatory, seen that there now had returned light to the tomb:
“It has light,” he said in a calm and leveled voice—escalating, saying it several times, as the other two scientists looked strangely at him. Now each of the scientists took their turns watching the events unfold. Many thoughts filled their minds; all guesses of course, but that is when the imagination runs wild, when we don’t know, and no one tells us; as a result, they all stood thoughtless for a long while just staring into the telescope watching the turn of events, saying nothing to one another, as they took their five minute intervals.
Humanly speaking, the scientists were tongue-tied, watching these two begins coming out of the butt-end of the projectile. —There were many questions the three scientists had, plus, some kind of investigation surely had to be started, if not by NASA, by the world’s intelligence groups, perhaps the Pentagon, for surely they were awoken to the lights. There was a chance they did not see the two beings moving out of its escape hole underneath the projectile, with their low-grade telescope on earth, for the Observatory’s could amplify the item 60,000-times, and was the only one with that strength in use at the moment in the United States (yet Tom and Toño could not forget the Hubble Space Telescope III, was in place a distance away from the Moon, and it could take wonderful pictures, its intensity was extraordinary, and of course was much closer to the area than the 243,000-miles, as was earth’s telescope at the Observatory. Toño had known it was turned in the opposite direction last time he looked, which was yesterday, yet, no one check it in the past twenty-four hours. The second thought was, that they were the only ones on earth with direct responsibility of monitoring the Tomb so closely; in consequence, if the Military was, they were only in a smaller capacity; and whatever was on their minds, they were not telling anyone, especially the secret site of the Observatory, although everyone knew there was one someplace in the Andes. Again they were saying nothing publicly, perhaps because they felt, the world would wake up and panic if they disclosed the lights being on in the Tomb; if indeed they were aware of the two astronauts coming out of the projectile, would be another matter. It was without question, they saw the lights though, and were perplexed at best.

[Fifteen minutes later] In the mean time, earth scientists at NASA sent out a military space-probe (craft) for investigating the situation, which was normal, thought Tom, but why one with nuclear warheads on it? It was a Comet-probe; called that because of its speed. Approximately 900-miles per minute, therefore it would reach its target in about 4.5 hours (or 270-minutes), the Moon and the Tomb; the speed of light being 186,300-miles a second; as one would measure distance in space. Earth’s Space Program at NASA had mastered the ‘State of Repose,’ meaning, to have the body rest during the duration of a voyage disregarding the harsh elements of its environment on the body; Tom had figured out the Tomb most likely had conquered the speed of light—in travel, while putting the beings in a state of hypertension ((or state of repose)), during its trillion-mile voyage, was smart.
As I was about to say, broadly speaking, sending out the military-probe seemed somewhat ordinary to Tom, not being of military insight, he left the thought linger under defensive security risks. What was really on the three scientists minds, was: what was next with the two beings of the Space Tomb; and they put all other issues in the back of their minds; that being, notifying anyone, and only with quick jerks, shifted to monitor the probe as she burst through the stratosphere, into interstellar space.
During this time, the two beings from the Tomb incased now into ball like metal coffins, landed on the surface of the moon. The ball like cylinders opened up like a broken egg, yet they were not broken, rather almost like a fetus with a protective thin metal form around them—at that point, they left them as one might leave his underwater gear on a beach to return to in a few hours. After that, they walked throughout the airless planet as if it was an archeological site; mystified. They had landed on the North West side of the Moon, in an area between Mare Imbrium and Sirus Aestuum; the area to the east was where Apollo 15 had landed years before, now in the history books. Nearby was the huge crater Copernicus, and Ghost Crater, Stadius. Beyond this was the huge Crater Plolemaeus. The two beings were astounded to see Stadius was completely over run by lava, and within its lower structure were huge crevices like tunnels or caves. They could see the orb of the earth from where they stood, it was a treasure to the two beings to see such color on a planet: a gift, or plus, one might say, especially in the gigantic galaxy called the Milky Way, with its horde of planets and stars, Earth being one of a kind, with its one and only sun, and huge moon to protect it. For they had seen many things, to include the center of the Milky Way, where there was a Black Hole; yet Earth was more a treasured sight to them.
—Tom noticed a strange happenings, both the individuals were picking up small rocks, holding them tight for a moment (as if squeezing them), then putting them back down on the surface, and repeating this experience over and over, about once every two or three minutes. As if they were sucking out some kind of life, or energy form from them—for their existence I would think. Puzzled as he was, he discounted the probe, for the moment, and watched the operation, still glancing back at the shells the two beings left on the moon, trying to put the puzzle together, or was it simple a riddle, not to be unwound?
After a while longer, this gave Doctor Tom Macare, had an idea, and he mentioned it to his fellow scientists.
In the mean time, the probe was nearing its next phase within its flight, as it headed right for the Space Tomb.
—The two beings, now walked among the moons dust, by and by, they found rocks, sucking out life’s existence from them. Broadly speaking, like a bee sucking out the sweetness from a flower. The scientist never faltering in amazement, as they watched the two beings like adolescents watching girls at a dance.
Toño started to take some calculations, then shifted quickly to adjust them, and compared them with those for the past 100-years. Said he to the other two:
“Look here, the weight of the Tomb was at one time: 18,000-pounds; diameter 110-inches, and wall thickness, some 18-inches, the height about twelve feet. Now comparing that data with the first data we took in the year 2025, there is a big noticeable difference. The Tomb now weights 14,882-pounds, diameter 88-inches, and wall thickness, 15-inches; the height seems to have departed with three feet of its length, to nine feet now.”
The other two scientists twitched here and there, said the Englishman, “How can this be?”
All three looking at one another, “Ah, yes, yes, it must be,” said the Englishman, as the other two nodded their heads in agreement.
Now the three scientists saw the military-probe in a direct line going towards the Tomb, with almost frightful faces.
“Should we call NASA, or Military Intelligence, or perhaps, the White House, the FBI, or CIA, anyone?” asked Toño.
Said Tom, looking back into the telescope—with Milan next to him trying to get a glance, “Do whatever you must, we’ll keep you updated.”
But Toño could not stand to leave these comrades with all the new information being extracted minute by minute, and for them to get the glory of the new discovery when the science magazines come out was too much to handle, and to be quite frank, this was out of the question he would monitor with them.
Therefore, he remained with the other two trying to get his one tird of the telescope’s time, watching the events unfold, moment by moment. Tom glanced at Toño, realizing he was not going to be the one losing the moment of excitement, and hence, handed the telescope over to him for his five-minute interval, at which time the military-probe had reached its destination.
The lights of the Tomb went off again, as the bodies of the beings were on the moon, they had unplugged their bodies with a connecting devise—before they had left, which went into the main body structure of the Tomb; as if it was an incubator. The probe circled the Tomb several times, but the scientist, Toño had given the telescope back to Tom (saying nothing about its maneuvers), who gave it to Milan, who shifted immediately to the Moon’s surface and the two beings, Toño not saying anything about the probe, not thinking about it for the most part, for he had only seen it circle once, and that was only halfway around the Tomb, and time slips by quickly when such things take place.
The military man in the probe now could be seen (by you and me, if this was a movie) talking on a handset-devise, for still the scientist was busy with the beings on the Moon.
“Hom…!” said Toño, “the two shells surely are life supporting items, like turtle shells you might say, how interesting; they must have to plug themselves into them as they do inside the Tomb.”
Tom now could see the life supporting energy the two beings were receiving from the items: rocks in particular, along with some strata formed substances, they were also picking up, “…hom…unbelievable,” was all he could say for the moment; then added: “…these beings could be eons old, whom is to say [?]” and he said no more.
“Calm everybody,” said the Englishman, trying to restore some equilibrium, as they now switched back to the Tomb, watching the military-probe, like a wiggling snake trying to corner its prey, circling the obstacle for the eighth time.
“I think…” was all Milan, could say, when all of a sudden the probe disappeared, and a small nuclear blast followed thereafter; Milan’s mouth gaped, he then looked at Tom, as Tom looked at Toño, all stone-still, and silent.
Toño now took command of the telescope, the two small beings, one a little taller than the other, about four feet tall, held the hand of the other, as they walked into the darkness of the moon, seemingly, an endless shadow. Toño knew the smaller one of the two was hurt, hemorrhaging from the fall she took from the blast; she had hit her head on a surface rock. They could have gone to their shells, thought Toño, but they simply looked up and saw their home was gone—blasted into molecular space-dust. As Toño later would demise: ‘…what for [?], why would they even consider going to their shells…for what purpose?” The Moon was cold looking, dark and exhausted. The three scientists could no longer look into the telescope.

[Conclusion: Part One] When one action is put into place, it often times produces ripples; I am referring to the word given on earth to destroy the module, or Space Tomb, that was orbiting the Moon; thus, all forms of ripples, or even waves are ordained thereafter; yes, the Ministers of Doom are released and it is a free-for-all, one might say, and these currents could be many and various—for we deal perhaps with the ages, and beings from the furthermost ends of a galaxy—and know not their capabilities. In the other three parts to this story, this all comes to light.

Note: Considered one of the highest-ranking short stories on Ezinearticles.com [an internet magaiznde with some 12—million readers annually] Re edited, 10/2006 Written 6/2005.



In Spanish

Translated by Nancy Penaloza


Proyecto: Fosa especial

(Plataforma de lanzamiento: Cibara-#17)

Parecía como una prisión de viajes, una fosa espacial a los observadores; un proyectil pesado luminoso principalmente, como si fue disparado de un cañón, hace cien mil años; rustico y antiguo con una tecnología desconocida por los científicos de la tierra. Estaba en forma de pelotilla o bala, un proyectil, negro como el carbón de leña con una guía a cada lado para mirar. Estuvo bajo observación durante cien años. El primer año había luces encendidas, dentro de el, por eso los documentos se leyeron diariamente en el diario de la tierra. En el proyectil hubo dos cuerpos. Evidentemente, ellos habían muerto allí y así fue, por eso, la tierra lo dejo flotando dentro de su orbita alrededor de la luna, como si esto hubiese caído dentro, desde hace cien mil años hasta este tiempo; esto fue como un regalo para los antiguos astronautas dentro de esta tumba, uno podría decir. Como lo mencioné antes, esto había estado orbitando por cien mil años, y el telescopio que lo estuvo rastreando estaba sobre la cima de una montaña en Perú, aproximadamente 20,700 pies de altitud, y después de aquel tiempo, interesante. Más de mil millones de terrícolas considerando esta bala la tumba formada, como su gato vago, ahora encontrado y siendo tomado con cuidado.
Este proyectil estuvo siendo observado desde la tierra por un telescopio gigantesco; el proyecto fue llamado, “Proyecto Tumba espacial”. Y hubieron científicos implicados, uno de América, Tom Macare, uno de Perú, Toño Guedes (Jefe, del invernadero, aunque Tom, quien consiguió financiamiento de los comerciantes Americanos, pensó que él fue el jefe la mayor parte del tiempo, y por eso, peleo con el Peruano), y Milán Thomas de Inglaterra, quien era en parte Gales, entonces él lamento, era la persona que parecía estar sacando las fajas entre los tres sobre todo Tom y Toño.
Este era un proyecto de investigación en curso, recogiendo los datos de sus movimientos y maquillaje químico, tanto como el contenido de metal. Una de las metas era intentar y calcular de donde venían, sin molestar la santidad de la tumba así, misma-no sea que Ud consiga un alboroto de grupos de interés sobre la tierra. Cada grupo, tratando de reclamar la tumba como perteneciente a sus ancestros: desde los Mayas de México y Centro América, a las culturas Pre- Incas de Perú, y todas las formas del Indio Norte- Americano ; y desde mas allá del Océano atlántico todos los caminos de Egipto, los egipcios reclamándolo. Y aun los judíos reclamando esto podría ser parte de las tribus perdidas de Israel para mencionar unos cuantos.
El mejor escenario del cual ellos pudieron venir fue que el proyectil era posiblemente de, Marte; pero entonces sería más viejo que el polvo. Cien años ahora parecieron poco a ningún tiempo en absoluto; aún 100,000 años no pareció largo en tal desarrollo. No pareció imaginárselos mirando más allá de su sistema solar por alguna extraña razón, quizás ellos podrían haberlo señalado, por que había algunas marcas sobre esto, que se leían, Plataforma de lanzamiento: Cibara *17; aunque fuera sólo ligeramente visible por los desechos oxidados enlazados a la Tumba, y en alguna otra clase de lengua, otra que no era el inglés o hasta el español. Una forma de jeroglíficos [los símbolos de un origen desconocido]. Es por eso que los arqueólogos Maya y antropólogos de Egipto calcularon que esto podría ser de sus antepasados. Aunque solo la mitad de esto fuera claro, y fue mas que una broma pesada, realmente para la gente de la tierra.
De cualquier modo, esto cayó perfectamente dentro de la orbita de la luna, como un asteroide navegando, haciendo su casa por cientos de años. Era ahora el año 2125 antes de cristo, la tumba a la que los científicos se refirieron, estaba teniendo su aniversario hoy día, 01 de Julio; esto era ahora cien años de edad de acuerdo al trabajo administrativo de la tierra. Los científicos americanos, Tom, junto con el Ingles, Milam, y Toño, el peruano, estuvieron hechizados de ver la tumba resucitada a si misma.
Las ventanas de la tumba en el proyectil no estuvieron congeladas por mucho tiempo, el calor había regresado al proyectil. Fue 99 años desde que el hombre había visto luz dentro de la fosa. Como podría ser esto, Tom deliberando, mirando profundamente dentro de la cara del telescopio; talvez un navío extraterrestre, o la NASA había decidido invadir sin notificarles a ellos- fueron sus primeros pensamientos.
Por lo demás, el estaba obsesionado con el evento actual, y su mente cambiando de un pensamiento al siguiente como un niño con un nuevo juguete. La siguiente cosa que tomo lugar fue que la base del proyectil se había abierto. Esto fue aun mas asombroso por que ellos no vieron otros navíos espaciales parecidos cerca, entonces, ¿que ocurrió en la tumba? O mejor aún ¿Que estaba pasando? Evidentemente los seres dentro del contenedor estuvieron en alguna clase de estado de hibernación. Pero como sobrevivieron los dos seres cien años tan largos, fue la siguiente pregunta que estaba rondando en la mente de los tres científicos; si de verdad ellos sobrevivieron, y si lo que estaban viendo ellos no era una ilusión de grupo. Después de años de mirar la fosa, todos ellos temían que terminarían teniendo alguna forma de ilusión de masa.
-El primero, de los 100 años medidos por ellos, supervisando la tumba, la luz estaba en ella, y cada uno de los cuerpos dentro fue considerado por que cada uno de ellos descansaran confortablemente en dos camas dentro de la circunferencia del proyectil. Por 99 años, era oscuro dentro de la tumba, mortalmente oscuro, toda la tierra pensó así. Todos decían. El científico americano Tom Macare, del observatorio, vio que ahora allí había regresado la luz para la tumba:
“hay luz”, dijo él, con una calmada y nivelada voz- intensificando, diciendo esto muchas veces, como los otros dos científicos lo miraban extrañados. Ahora cada uno de los científicos tomó a su turno los eventos revelados. Muchos pensamientos llenaban sus mentes, todos adivinaban por supuesto, pero es cuando la imaginación corre salvajemente, cuando no sabemos, y nadie nos dice; como resultado, todos ellos irreflexivos por un largo momento mirando fijamente justo dentro del telescopio mirando nuevamente los acontecimientos no diciendo nada al otro, como si ellos tomaran sus cinco minutos de intervalo.
Humanamente hablando, los científicos estuvieron con la lengua atada, mirando estas dos aperturas saliendo del extremo final del proyectil. Había muchas preguntas que los tres científicos tenían, mas, alguna clase de investigación seguramente había empezado, si no por la NASA, por grupos de inteligencia mundial, talvez el Pentágono, por que seguramente ellos fueron despertados por las luces. Hubo una posibilidad, ellos no vieron a los dos seres moviéndose fuera de su hueco de escape bajo el proyectil, con sus telescopio de bajo grado sobre la tierra, para que los observatorios pudieran amplificarlos el tamaño en 60,000 veces, y era solo uno con tal intensidad de fuerza en uso en este momento en los Estados Unidos (aun Tom y Toño no podían olvidar que el telescopio del espacio The Hublle lll, estuvo en un lugar distante desde la luna, y este podía tomar fotos maravillosas, su intensidad era extraordinaria, y por supuesto estuvo mucho mas cerca al área de 243,000 millas, como estuvo el telescopio de la tierra en el observatorio. Toño sabía que este fue encendido en la dirección opuesta la última vez que lo vio, el cual fue ayer, aun, nadie ha verificado en las pasadas 24 horas. El segundo pensamiento fue, que ellos fueron los únicos sobre la tierra directamente responsables de vigilar la fosa tan cercanamente; en consecuencia si los militares fueran, ellos estaban en una capacidad mas pequeña; y cualquier cosa que estuviera en sus mentes, ellos no decían a nadie, especialmente el sitio secreto del conservatorio, sin embargo todos sabían que había algún lugar en los andes. Nuevamente ellos no estuvieron diciendo nada públicamente, talvez, porque ellos sentían, que el mundo podría despertar y entrar en pánico si ellos descubrían la luz que había en la tumba; si de verdad ellos estuvieron concientes de los dos astronautas saliendo del proyectil, seria otra materia. Esto era sin duda, ellos vieron la luz pensó, y ellos estuvieron perplejos a lo mejor.
(15 minutos mas tarde) al mismo tiempo, los Científicos de la tierra en la NASA enviaron una bujía espacial militar al espacio (nave) para investigar la situación, lo cual fue normal, pensó Tom, pero ¿porqué uno con arcos de guerra en el? Esto fue una bujía de cometa; llamado así a causa de su velocidad. Aproximadamente 900 millas por minuto, mas esto podría alcanzar su objetivo en 4.5 horas (o 270-minutos), la luna y la tumba; siendo la velocidad de la luz 186,300 millas por segundo; como uno podría medir la distancia en el espacio.
El programa de vuelos espaciales de la tierra en la NASA había dominado “El estado de reposo” esto significaba, tener el cuerpo descansado durante la duración del viaje desestimando de los elementos ásperos de su ambiente en el cuerpo, Tom había comprendido que la tumba mas probablemente había conquistado la velocidad de la luz en el viaje, poniendo mientras a los seres en un estado de hipertensión (o estado de reposo) durante su billón de millas de viaje era inteligente.
Como estuve a punto de decir, ampliamente hablando, enviando fuera la prueba militar parecía algo extraordinario para Tom, no siendo un militar en cuestión, el dejo el pensamiento unido bajo la defensiva de seguridad de riesgo. Lo que realmente estuvo sobre la mente de los tres científicos fue, ¿que era lo próximo con los dos seres de la tumba?; y ellos pusieron todos los otros problemas en el fondo de sus mentes, siendo esto, notificado a todo el mundo, y sólo con jalones rápidos, cambiados para supervisar la sonda como ella se reventó por la estratosfera, en el espacio Inter.-estelar.
Durante este tiempo, los dos seres de la tumba revestidos ahora dentro de pelotas como ataúdes metálicos, aterrizados sobre la superficie de la luna. La bola como cilindros se abrió como un huevo roto, aunque ellos no estuvieron rotos, más bien casi como un feto con una forma protectora delgada metálica alrededor de ellos así, ellos los dejaron como uno podría dejar su engranaje submarino sobre una playa para volver luego en unas horas. Entonces ellos anduvieron por todas partes del planeta sin viento como si esto fuera un sitio arqueológico; Desconcertados. Ellos habían aterrizado sobre el lado de Oeste de Norte de la Luna, en un área entre la Yegua Imbrium y Sirus Aestuum; el área al este era donde Apolo 15 había aterrizado hace años, ahora en los libros de historia. Cercano estaba el enorme cráter Copernicus, y el cráter fantasma, stadius mas allá de esto estaba el enorme cráter plolemaeus. Los dos seres estuvieron asombrados viendo que Stadius era completamente sobre-controlado por la lava, y dentro de su estructura inferior habían enormes grietas como túneles o cuevas. Ellos podrían ver la orbita de la tierra desde donde ellos estuvieron de pie, esto era un tesoro para los dos seres poder ver tales colores sobre un planeta: un regalo, o más, uno podría decir, sobre todo en la galaxia gigantesca llamada la Vía Láctea, con su multitud de planetas y estrellas, la Tierra siendo una de ellas, con su único y sólo sol, y la enorme luna para protegerlo. Ya que ellos habían visto muchas cosas, incluso el centro de de la Vía Láctea, donde estaba un agujero negro; aún la Tierra era más que un lugar atesorado por ellos –
Tom notó un acontecimiento extraño, ambos individuos recogían pequeñas rocas, sosteniéndolos apretado durante un momento (como exprimiéndolos), luego poniéndolos echándolos atrás sobre la superficie, y repitiendo esta experiencia una y otra vez, cerca de unos 2 o 3 minutos. Como si ellos extraían hacia fuera una especie de vida, o una forma de energía para ellos; para su existencia, yo pensaría. Perplejo como él estaba, él disminuyo la prueba, por el momento, y miró la operación, todavía mirando de reojo atrás en las cáscaras que los dos seres dejaron sobre la luna, tratando de juntar el rompecabezas, ¿o esto era simplemente un filtro, no siendo desenrollado?
Al cabo de un rato de esto el Doctor Tom Macare, dio una idea, y lo mencionó a sus colegas científicos. Al mismo tiempo, la prueba estaba acercándose a su siguiente fase dentro de su vuelo, como si esto se dirigiera directamente hacia la tumba espacial.
-Los dos seres, ahora anduvieron entre el polvo de la luna, ande y ande ellos encontraron rocas, chupando hacia fuera la existencia de vida de ellos. Hablando en términos generales, como una abeja que chupa hacia fuera el dulzor de una flor. El científico nunca vaciló ente el asombro, mientras ellos miraban a los dos seres como adolescentes que miran a muchachas en un baile. Toño comenzó a tomar algunos cálculos, luego cambiados rápidamente para ajustarlos, y los comparó con aquellos de hace 100 años. Dijo él a otros dos:
“miren aquí, el peso de la Tumba era en cierta época: 18,000 libras; diámetro 110 pulgadas, y grosor de la pared, aproximadamente 18 pulgadas, la altura aproximadamente doce pies. Ahora comparando esto datos con los primeros datos tomamos en el año 2025, hay una gran diferencia notable. La Tumba ahora pesa 14,882 libras, diámetro 88 pulgadas, y grosor de la pared, 15 pulgadas; la altura parece haberse esfumado cerca tres pies de longitud, a nueve pies ahora.
Los dos científicos precipitándose aquí y allá, el inglés dijo: ¿" Cómo puede ser esto”?.
Todos los tres mirándose uno al otro, " Ah, sí, sí, debe ser, " dijo el inglés, mientras los otros dos movieron sus cabezas en acuerdo.
Ahora los tres científicos vieron la bujía militar en una línea directa yendo hacia la tumba, con caras casi espantadas.
¿" Deberíamos nosotros llamar a la NASA, o la Inteligencia militar, o quizás, la Casa Blanca, la Brigada de Investigación Criminal, o la Agencia Central de Información, cualquiera? “preguntó Toño.
Tom dijo, mirando otra vez en el telescopio - con Milam cerca de él tratando de conseguir un vistazo, "haz lo que debes hacer, nosotros te mantendremos informado”.
Pero Toño no podía llevar para abandonar a estos compañeros con toda la nueva información siendo extraída minuto a minuto, y para que ellos consiguieran la gloria del nuevo descubrimiento cuando las revistas de ciencia vinieran era demasiado para llevar, y para ser bastante franco, era inadmisible. Por lo tanto, él permaneció con los otros dos tratando de conseguir su 1/3 del tiempo del telescopio, mirando los acontecimientos revelados, de momento a momento. Tom echaba un vistazo a Toño, comprendiendo que él no iba a ser el que pierda el momento de entusiasmo, y de ahí, le entregó el telescopio por intervalo de su cinco minuto, en tal tiempo la bujía militar había alcanzado su destino.
Las luces de la Tumba se apagaron otra vez, como los cuerpos de los seres estaban sobre la luna, ellos habían destapado sus cuerpos con una conexión inventada - antes de que ellos se hubieran marchado- entró en la estructura de cuerpo principal de la Tumba; como si esto era una incubadora. La bujía rodeó sobre la Tumba varias veces, pero el científico, Toño había devuelto el telescopio a Tom (no diciendo nada acerca de sus maniobras), quien lo dio a Milano, que cambió inmediatamente a la superficie de Luna y los dos seres, Toño sin decir nada sobre la bujía, no pensando en ello principalmente, ya que él sólo había visto el círculo una vez, y era sólo a mitad de camino alrededor de la Tumba, y resbalones de veces rápidamente como cuando tales cosas ocurren. El militar en la bujía ahora podría ser visto (por usted y por mí, como si esto fuera una película) hablando sobre un invento microteléfono, pera todavía el científico estaba ocupado en los seres sobre la Luna.
“¡Hom!”… dijo Toño, “Las dos cáscaras seguramente son la vida que soporta los artículos, como cáscaras de tortuga usted podría decir, cuan interesante; ellos deben haber tenido que taparse con ellos como lo hacen dentro de la Tumba”. Tom ahora podía ver que la vida apoyando la energía que los dos seres recibían de los artículos: las rocas en particular, con algunos estratos formaron sustancias, que ellos también recogían, “…Hom…increíblemente”, era todo lo que él podía decir por el momento; entonces añadió: “…estos seres podrían ser viejos de era, quien debe decir [?] " Y él no dijo más.
“Tranquilos todos", dijo el Inglés, tratando de restaurar algún equilibrio, así ellos ahora regresaron a la Tumba, mirando la bujía militar, como una serpiente rodeando sobre el obstáculo por la octava vez.
“Pienso… “. Fue todo Milam, podría decir, cuando de repente la bujía desapareció, y una pequeña ráfaga nuclear seguida a partir de entonces; la boca de Milano bostezó, él entonces miró a Tom, como Tom miró Toño, todavía atónito y silencioso.
Toño ahora tomó el mando del telescopio, los dos pequeños seres, uno más alto que el otro, aproximadamente cuatro pies altitud sostuvo la mano del otro, como si ellos anduvieran en la oscuridad de la luna, similarmente, una sombra infinita. Toño sabía que el más pequeño de los dos estaba herido, haciendo una hemorragia de la caída que ella tomó de la ráfaga, ella se había golpeado la cabeza sobre una roca superficial. Ellos podían haber ido a sus cáscaras, pensó Toño, pero ellos simplemente miraron y vieron que su casa se había ido - maldito en el polvo espacial molecular. Como Toño más tarde legaría: “¿…para qué [?], por qué aún pensarían ellos ir a su cascarones…por qué propósito? “La Luna se veía fría, oscura y agotada. Los tres científicos no podían examinar más el telescopio.

[Conclusión: Primera parte] Cuando una acción es puesta en el lugar, ello a menudas veces producen altibajos; me refiero a la palabra dada sobre la tierra para destruir el módulo, o la Tumba Espacial, que estaba orbitando la Luna; mas, todas las formas de ondulación, o aún (ola) son ordenadas a partir de entonces; sí, los Ministros de Destino son liberados y esto es una lucha general, uno podría decir, y estas corrientes podrían ser muchos y varias - ya que nosotros quizás tratamos con los años, y seres a partir de los mas lejanos finales de una galaxia - y no conocemos sus capacidades.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XXI) Epigrams/ Monster Archaic[Suspense story] in Spanish & English

Poets & Poems:
The Globetrotter Poet’s Journal
(By D.L. Siluk)) Part XXI))


(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-25-2006]




October Poetic Epigrams #2

3
Literature from the Heart

The whole purpose of literature
is not purely read it,
but to register it in the heart.
Style is simply the oil that makes the
wheels go round.

#1535 [10/24/2006]


4

Good Writers

Most great writers
live in the dignified climate
of their own psyche: creating productions
(Works) that to them are habitual;
to others remarkable...!

#1536 [10/24/2006]





5

Copied

They said: you copied me!
I said: he has his art
I have mine.

#1537 [10 Story One

The Monster Archaic
[A haunting bullfight in Lima]


In Spanish and English


1
The Bull Fight

I tell you this for a truth. Well, it all started out simple and my Grandfather, well—something inside his head got triggered. It all took place in the bull-ring at Lima, 1923. My Grandpapa was born in l886, and had retired from boxing long before, unwillingly, but kind of had to. Oh, he had fought the best, Jack Johnson, Sullivan, and then, well I will tell you the story. I didn’t see it happen, how could I, I wasn’t born yet. It was a mystery for many years to me and many others, but I know how he was, and the Peruvian woman he said he was in love with, fine, Latin blood she had, but she didn’t understand, I doubt anyone in Peru understood that warm hot summer day when Anatolee, the blue-eyed gringo went mad, nutty.

He was a brave man though, let no one say otherwise, six foot three, two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe a bit more than that, I can tell by his pictures somewhat, and I read his history. He was from Russia, came over to America as a youth, learned how to fight like Sullivan and Dempsey in the bars and then in the ring. I am Russian myself, in that capacity, like my Grandpapa. The Peruvians laughed at him when he stood up and yelled at the capadores sitting in the arena, when he slipped and the bull gored him, a breathless moment I do expect, perhaps this was the moment the fans took notice of him, for he did it unexpectedly, and thought him a fool, oh I suppose he was more then excited, more than he wished to be anyhow, ‘it is their bullfight,’ he murmured,’ so it is said, and he sat back down.

The lovely Señorita he was with, one to be his bride someday, she hoped—was dismayed at the Gringo’s disposition on this matter. For she said something like, ‘excuse me,’ (she loved the bullfight) and looked at him. You see, he was for the bull, because the bull had no chance. None whatsoever he said, he told his beautiful Senorita as she sat in his sitting place, marked with a number, --her by his side and her friends to the right of her, of which he told them with even more venom, ‘The bull is dead the moment he enters the ring, and paces the walls trying to find his way out’. Some say, Anatolee wanted a way out of marrying the young lady, for he was close to forty, and she was close to twenty—but I don’t believe that, I think what took place was because of other reasons, enemies inside his head came out of his tongue, like the bulls, when they are thirsty, and the bull of course is filled with water to make him slow during his fight with the matador. And the banderillos placed the darts, and often times fail to place them properly (as they did this day), thus the bull gets mad and so did my Grandfather. I know he felt it was cruel and cold-blooded punishment for the animal that didn’t want to be there in the first place.

So what did Anatolee do, what you would expect, he stood up from his seat, in the hot summer high temperature, gazing, staring—hypnotically into the bullring and yelled like a mad bull himself, ‘What chance, what damn chance has the bull got!’ he yelled. His girlfriend’s Peruvian friend, an enthusiast comrade like her, that liked her, matter of fact, would have liked to marry her—had he not been married, tried to reason with Anatolee, but as the bull was enticed into charging the capadores, and the man who looked like he was to be eaten up by the bull, escaped unhurt, he again could not help himself, he yelled feverishly at the bullring. The audiences jeered at him liken to a viper, told him to sit down in Spanish, but he didn’t understand, and thus, a sword appeared and missed the heart of the bull and suck out through the side of his ribs. But he just sat sadly in his seat—unmotivated, with hidden anger and staring, his face contorted, his teeth grinding.

—Then came out the picador on his horse (I have talked to Picadors, they are brave to go into the ring on an old horse like they do, most are old and ragged looking, this poor horse was so old and skinny, good for nothing else I suppose, and this is why they use them of course, and my Grandfather knew this, like him, he was now aging, and good for what?), and the bull charged the horse, sad as it was, the horse flipped flopped about rolled over—not knowing another gore was coming and when it did, went in the air, and the picador landed on the ground, and again escaped like the capadores before; a hideous crime he thought. This bull was very strong, like a bull I saw in Mexico City—Nico, who died slowly like this one, and was strong, so very strong like this bull, they were both fighters, ones that would not go down with a blow, like in the ring where my Grandfather fought as a professional boxer. I’ve seen this same fighting instinct in the bull in Mexico City, what my Grandfather saw in the ring in Lima, he had in himself, but for him it went a little farther. I shall explain that now, for it is the horse that triggered him.

2
The Trigger

My Grandfather was in many fights like me as I have tried to explain, so I know what took place that Saturday afternoon in the heat of the afternoon, the Peruvian warmth at the bullring in Lima. It was akin to a fight in the ring, in the hot hours of daylight. When the horse fell, gored in the stomach, gored several times, his insides came out—his whole insides unfilled, bare, unoccupied there on the dirt of the bullring emptied out, the horse kicking his feet like a man down in the boxing-ring trying to get up, trying but not getting up, but let’s say is also blindfolded: told if he does get up—if he does stand on those feet of his, those limbs, tentacles, he will get his guts opened up like the horse, emptied out in front of his family, and his families guts emptied out like his; he had to take a dive in the ring, let the other man win, he had no choice. The scum of the earth made him stay down, loose the fight, like the Peruvian’s who made the horse go into the ring blindfolded, now was down; blindfolded so he could not see it coming—death coming, the spear of death; so he could not see the bull ready to gore him, trusting humanity, the nature of humanity; dumb as that might be. The horse like the fighter has no chance; that is what went through his head at that very moment—that last millisecond. It was the last fight my Grandfather ever fought, the day he lost to a smaller man, less skilled, but he had a family, and should he get up—stand up on those legs to fight this man, this puny man, they would cut their guts out, like the horse in the ring, no chance—you see, none whatsoever. But he lost his wife none the less (and that is another story unto itself), and met his Señorita, but that is all history, let me finish the story for you.

--He stood up now, all wonder why he did not go crazy when the bull was killed, I should say slaughtered slowly, and dragged out of the ring by a mule, two mules. ‘Why the horse,’ people kept saying for years, still say it. As I tried to explain, my Grandfather was the horse, the audience were the scum, the boxing people who fixed the fights, the ones that humiliated him to, to such a thing as to take a dive in the middle of his life for a younger fighter, who knew nothing. He was blindfolded, kind of speaking, like the horse. The bull to him was simply a stupid animal with no chance at all, dead the moment he walked in the ring—like the young fighter. Yes, yes, my Grandfather was gored by the scum, by the stupid young man [liken to the stupid bull, he knew no better].
--So now you see why Anatolee stood up and yelled, and then when the horse got gored, like him, he lost it, hit the man beside his Señorita sitting next to her with his wife, broke his nose, and when two soldiers came running toward him—well, then the shooting started, and the crowed stood up to see what was happening. The soldiers and the crowd killed him, as he went wild hitting any and everyone who got close to him, several Peruvians went to the hospital that day, but nonetheless, he was dead from the insanity that took place that day. Yes, oh yes, it was a hot day in Lima and the beast primitive came out of Anatolee, my Grandfather, what more can I say.

Note: Inspirited by Jack London, Earnest Hemingway and a bullfight I saw in Mexico, City, and Lima, Peru

A Quiet, but loud Voice

[Bullfight in Lima, Peru]

Gone are the feelings of hope, gone forever; the glory of the fight lives on but for a moment, like a song once sung, now silent: like the trumpets that blow for this fiesta, the bull-fight. They sing and throw their hats; arm to arm—they sway back and forth, like the waves of the ocean. They will never come back: the bull, the horse, the prize fighter; the poor dead. And somewhere the wind is blowing, the snow is falling—but here, here in the arena is the sun, the sun shinning its ultraviolet heat, over head, shining down, down—it shines down low on the dead.

3
Benediction

Oh, I say to one and all, I am neither for the bull or the matador; as Hemingway protested, one must be for one or the other—no, I am for the champion of the brave, the glory of the arena, the ceremony of the event, its intrinsic meanings, and its blessings. So I make no judgment inasmuch as I do enjoy the bullfight, the cockfight, the ring, the karate tournaments, and the sumo wrestling tournaments. In all such events it is the grit and endurance and it all pleases me.


El Monstruo Arcaico
[Una corrida de toros que frecuenta en Lima]


Translated by Nancy Penaloza



1

La Corrida de toros


Le digo esto por una verdad. Bien, todo esto comenzó simplemente y mi Abuelo, bien - algo dentro de su cabeza fue provocado. Todo esto ocurrió en la plaza de toros en Lima, 1923. Mi Abuelo naciò en l886, y se había retirado del Boxeo mucho antes, de mala gana, pero con bondad de hacerlo.
Oh, él había luchado con los mejores, Jack Johnson, Sullivan, y luego, bien le diré la historia. Yo no lo vi pasar, como podría yo, no habia nacido aún. Esto fue un misterio por muchos años para mí y muchos otros, pero conozco como fue él, y la mujer peruana de la que él dijo que él estuvo bien enamorado, sangre latina que ella tenía, pero ella no entendió, dudo que alguien en Perú entendiera que el calido dia de verano Cuando Anatolee, , gringo de ojos azules se volvió loco.
Él era un hombre valiente pienso, no deje a nadie decir de otra manera, seis pies trescientos, doscientas cincuenta libras, tal vez un poco más que eso, puedo decir algo por sus fotos, y leí su historia. Él era de Rusia, vino a América joven, aprendió a luchar como Sullivan y Dempsey en las barras y luego en el ring. Yo soy ruso, en esa capacidad, como mi Abuelo. Los peruanos se rieron de él cuando él se levantó y gritó en la sesion de toreros en la arena, cuando él resbaló y el toro lo corneo, un momento sin aliento que realmente espero, quizás que este era el momento que los admiradores hicieron caso de él, ya que él lo hizo de improviso, y pensandolo por un idiota, ah supongo él estuvo màs que excitado entonces, mas de lo que él deseó ser de todos modos, ' esto es su corrida de toros, ' murmuró él, ' y asi es dicho, y él se sentó atras.
La encantadora Señorita que estaba con el , una para ser su novia un día, ella esperó - fue consternada en la disposición de Gringo sobre esta materia. por lo que ella dijo algo como, ' perdóneme, ' (ella amaba la corrida de toros) y lo miró. Usted ve, él fuè por el toro, porque el toro no tenía ninguna posibilidad. Ninguno independientemente de lo que él dijo, él dijo a su hermosa señorita cuando ella se sentó en su asiento, marcado con un número, - ella por su lado y sus amigos a la derecha de ella, por lo cual él les dijo con más veneno aun, ' el toro está muerto al momento de entrar en el ring, y pasea las paredes tratando de encontrar su salida '. Unos dicen, Anatolee quiso una salida para casarse con la señorita, ya que él estaba cerca de cuarenta, y ella estaba cerca de veinte - pero yo no creo eso, yo piense que lo que ocurrió era debido a otros motivos, enemigos dentro de su cabeza salieron por su lengua, como los toros, cuando ellos tienen sed, y el toro desde luego es llenado de agua para hacerlo mas lento durante su lucha con el matador. Y el banderillero colocó los dardos, y a menudo fallan en colocarlos correctamente (como lo hicieron ese día), así el toro se puso furioso y mi Abuelo también . Sé que él sintió que esto fue cruel castigo y con sangre fría para el animal que no quiso estar allí en primer lugar.
¡Asi, que Anatolee hizo, lo que usted esperaría, él se levantó de su asiento, en la alta temperatura caliente de verano, mirando fijamente, mirando-fijamente-hypnoticamente en la plaza de toros y gritando como un toro loco , ' Que posibilidad, que maldita posibilidad consiguio el toro! ' él gritó. El amigo peruano de su novia, un camarada tan entusiasta como ella, que al igual que ella, materia de hecho, le habría gustado casarse con ella - Èl no habia sido casado, intento razonar con Anatolee, pero como el toro fue atraído con la capa de toreros, y el hombre que se pareció a él debía ser comido por completo por el toro, escapò indemne, él otra vez no podía ayudarse, él gritó febrilmente en la plaza de toros. El público se burló de él comparandolo con una víbora, le pidio sentarse en español, pero él no entendió, y así, una espada apareció y se perdiò en el corazón del toro y absorviendo hacia fuera por el lado de sus costillas. Pero él solamente se sentó triste en su inmotivado asiento, con la cólera oculta y mirando fijamente, su cara retorcida, su dientes temblando.
Entonces salió el picador sobre su caballo (yo he hablado del Picador, ellos son valientes para entrar en el coso sobre un viejo caballo, como ellos lo hacen, muchos son viejos y parecen desiguales, este pobre caballo era tan viejo y flaco, bueno para nada mas yo supongo, y esto es por lo qué ellos los usan, por supuesto, y mi Abuelo sabía esto, como él, él ahora envejecía, y bueno para qué?), y el toro cargó al caballo, triste como esto fue, el caballo tirado arrojado casi derribado- el no sabia que el otro venia a cornearlo y cuando hizo esto, volò en el aire, y el picador aterrizo sobre la tierra, y otra vez se escapó como los toreros antes; un crimen horrible él pensó. Este toro era muy fuerte, como un toro que yo vi en Ciudad de México-Nico, quien murió despacio como éste, y era fuerte, tan muy fuerte como este toro, ellos ambos eran luchadores que no disminuirían con un golpe, como en el ring donde mi Abuelo luchó como un boxeador profesional. He visto este mismo instinto de lucha en el toro en Ciudad de México, lo que mi Abuelo vio en el ring en Lima, él lo tenía en él, pero para él esto fue un poco más lejos. Explicaré que ahora, por que este es el caballo que lo provocó.
El Gatillo
Mi Abuelo estaba en muchas peleas como yo, como he tratado de explicar, entonces sé que ocurrió ese sábado por la tarde en el calor de la tarde, el calor peruano en la plaza de toros en Lima. Era semejante a una lucha en el ring, en las horas calientes de luz del día. Cuando el caballo se cayó, corneado al estómago, corneado varias veces, su intestinos salieron fuera - todos sus intestinos vacios, desnudo, desocupado allí sobre la suciedad de la plaza de toros vaciada hacia fuera, el caballo pataleando sus pies como un hombre abajo en el ring del boxeo tratando de levantarse, intentando, pero no levantandose, pero digamos vendado los ojos tambien: digo si él realmente despierta - si él realmente se para en aquellos sus pies, aquellos miembros, tentáculos, él conseguira abrir sus tripas como el caballo, vaciado hacia fuera frente a su familia, y las tripas de su familia vaciadas hacia fuera como el de él. tuvo que tomar una zambullida en el ring, dejar al otro hombre el triunfo, él no tenía ninguna opción. La espuma de la tierra lo hizo no levantarse, soltar la lucha, como el peruano que hizo el caballo entrar en el ring con los ojos vendados, ahora estaba abajo; vendado los ojos entonces él no podía ver la llegada de la muerte, la lanza de muerte; entonces él no podía ver el toro listo para cornearlo, la humanidad confiada, la naturaleza de la humanidad; muda como podría ser. El caballo como el luchador no tiene ninguna posibilidad; es por lo entrò de cabezaen ese momento - aquel último milesimo de segundo. Esta es la última lucha que mi Abuelo lucho alguna vez, el día que él perdió al más pequeño hombre, menos experto, pero él tenía una familia, y si él despierta - se levanta sobre aquellas piernas para golpear a este hombre, este hombre endeble, ellos recortarían sus tripas, como al caballo en el ring ninguna posibilidad - usted ve, ninguno en absoluto. Pero él perdió a su esposa sin embargo (y es otra historia a sí), y encontró a su Señorita, pero eso es toda la historia, dejme terminar la historia para usted.
Él se levantó ahora, toda la duda por qué él no fue el chiflado cuando el toro fue matado, yo debería decir matado despacio, y arrastrado fuera del ring por una mula, dos mulas. ' Por qué el caballo, ' la gente siguió diciendo durante años, todavía lo dice. Como traté de explicar, mi Abuelo fuè el caballo, la audiencia fuè la espuma, la gente de boxeo que fijó las peleas, estos que lo humillaron a, a tal cosa como tomar una zambullida en medio de su vida para un luchador más jóven, que no no conocía nada. le vendaron los ojos a él, la clase de oratoria, como el caballo. El toro para él era simplemente un animal estúpido sin ninguna posibilidad en absoluto, muerto al momento que él anduvo en el ring como un luchador mas jóven. Sí, sí, la espuma corneó a mi Abuelo, por el joven estúpido [comparandolo con el toro estúpido, él no sabía mejor].

Asi ahora usted ve por qué Anatolee se levantó y gritó, y luego cuando cornearon el caballo, como él, él lo perdió, golpeò al hombre al lado de su Señorita sentado cerca a ella con su esposa, rompió su nariz, y cuando dos soldados vinieron corriendo hacia él pues entonces comenzaron los disparos, y la multitud se levantò para ver lo que pasaba. Los soldados y la muchedumbre lo mataron, como él fue golpeando salvajemente a uno y todos los que se pusieron cerca de él, varios peruanos fueron al hospital ese día, pero sin embargo, él estaba muerto de la locura que ocurrió ese día. Sí, por supuesto, esto era un día caluroso en Lima y la bestia primitiva vino hacia fuera de Anatolee, mi Abuelo, que más puede yo decir.


Note: Inspirado por Jack Londres, Earnest Hemingway y una corrida de toros yo vi en ciudad de México, y Lima, Perú

Una Voz Tranquila, pero ruidosa

[ Corrida de toros en Lima, Perú]
Idos son los sentimientos de esperanza, idos para siempre; la gloria de la lucha vive , pero durante un momento, como una canción una vez cantada, ahora silencio, como las trompetas que soplan para esta fiesta, la corrida de toros. Ellos cantan y lanzan sus sombreros; brazo a brazo - ellos se balancean hacia adelante y hacia atrás, como las olas del océano. Ellos nunca volverán: el toro, el caballo, el premio del luchador; el pobre muerto. Y en algún sitio el viento sopla, la nieve cae - pero aquí, aquí en la arena está el sol, el sol brillando su calor ultravioleta, sobre la cabeza, brillante abajo, abajo - esto brilla abajo bajo sobre los muertos.

3

Bendición

Ah, digo absolutamente todos, soy ninguno para el toro o el matador; como Hemingway protestó, uno debe ser para uno o el otro - no, soy para el campeón valiente, la gloria de la arena, la ceremonia del acontecimiento, sus significados intrínsecos, y sus bendiciónes. Entonces no hago ningún juicio puesto que realmente disfruto de la corrida de toros, la pelea de gallos, el ring, los torneos de karate, y el sumo torneos que luchan. En todos y tales acontecimientos esto es la arena y la resistencia y todo esto me complace.



/24/2006]

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XX) Epigrams/Uamak's Aquatic [Suspense story;Revised] In Spanish & English

Poets & Poems
Globetrotter Poet
(By D.L. Siluk)) Part XX))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-24-2006]


October Poetic Epigrams



1

No Perfect Love

Can you love me the same as I love you? —
Impossible, don’t play me the fool!
Neither one of us, can love the same,
Lest we find same breathe twice!

10/23/2006 [#1533/Lima, Peru]


2

A Book Lives Not…?

A book lives, not for its vividness
Nor for its construction—but because
It celebrates our eternal, yet
Confusing human nature.

(That thing that still baffles us.


[10/23/2006 [#1534/Lima, Peru]




Uamak's Aquatic
[Revised]


[in Spanish and English]


English Version


Delicately, my mind was selecting a muffled tune, out of the dead dark empty space surrounding me…

I saw a shape on a rock, not sure who it was; I had a sensitivity though, a feeling call it, or second-sight; I’ve heard that before, not sure if I want to put a lot of credence into it, but so be it, the sensitivity and numbness was there. I didn’t’ sense any danger in the moment, in the moonlit figure, sitting on the rocks, lurking, looking out into the deep. I did get an awareness of cramps in my stomach though, like centipedes nibbling at it—from all corners—at the pink and red flesh of my internal organs, stinging their poisonous little fangs into them.
I stumbled about in the thick foliage, lost in its prickly overgrown wild plants and mud, and god knows what else; in corollary, I came to the edge near the sea, over looking the aquatic, edge of the cliff, it was many years ago since I had been here. I zigzagged through the last of the bushes, carefully now, it was the rim of the cliff, and then I got into a clearer opening. I could only hear the noises of shifting waters—the waters below me, as clattering waves hit, and splashed against the overhang—the sea cliffs, directly in front of me. It was but a few seconds after dark, behind twilight, yes indeed, it had disappeared, swallowed up by an agitated night.
Such as this night, with its mystique: inscrutability always appears to bring with it a limitless amount of threat, does it not? A rhetorical question at best, sure it does, and that figure on the …the tide was becoming more calm, the rocks were mammoth, and overlooking the sea, jagged and with fangs.
With the wind now gentle over head, not like a few minutes ago: I mean, it just unexpectedly evaporated—so it seems. As I was about to say, the shape, silhouette on the huge rock, is still looking into the sea; it is like he is locked into a trance, or that I am but a worm to him, and too insufficient for him to pay any attention to me—he surely must have heard me. He seems to be talking to himself, or perhaps some sea monster, just kidding—but he’s talking to someone, something, and his head is pointed downward, down, down toward the sea. Save for the fact I am not in an illusion.
A fishing boat, no, no just a vessel of some kind, not sure why I said fishing boat, how do I know, it is lit up a bit, a light on its deck, I suppose it’s a deck, it is far off in the distance. I walked now, aimless I think, can’t see much in front of me, lest I end up in the sea on top of that damn monster I can’t see, only to find out it is real. Oh well, some shadows just left the moon a bit more exposed, but it gave me a little more light. In September it is chilly here, I swear that stature has something to do with this mysterious evening. Here off the coast of … my bones are chilled.
If you were to ask me: ‘…what are you doing out here?’ I couldn’t tell you, I’d not have the answer, ‘doing out here,’ what? Maybe that figure on the rock knows—he must be but a hundred yards from me now; perchance I’ll find out soon enough, and so will you. I mean it is night, but not all that late.
Conceivably I was drawn out here. I was visiting a friend, you could say, but only after I arrived did I find myself more compelled to come out here. So what provoked me to take this little trip in the first place (again)—your guess is as good as mine, other than this conpulsion to do so. I have been to places around the world that seems to draw on a persons soul to go to a certain place: if he denys his soul that right, it can agitate his pulse to the point of no return—and ends up at that certain place unknowingly anyhow, —in this case here.
“Aye, good Master,” I heard (a mumble) “…take the lot as it is…” this is what echoed back to me, the wind, yes the wind pushed it back into my ears from the spot where that unfamiliar person is, that figure on the huge rock looking, just looking into-–what I assume is the sea, a black hole in the sea perhaps, yes indeed, that is what he is doing, looking into a black hole into the sea, for some odd reason, I can see that now, as it fads away, fades as fast as it came. Evidently, something else was, or I should say, is thriving.
—The form (the shape on the rock) was looking proud with a ting of arrogance. I asked myself: now being but several yards away: ‘does he have an inkling of my presence?’ Who concentrates so hard, I mean look, he is asking the water of the sea something? Perhaps someone; I get the feeling he has lost something, and wants to bargain for it back—death brings out many wishes in man and beast: and he looks to be both. Or is he planning something; he is huge, awfully massive. I’ll take a few more steps, a yard now, he should turn around I’d think. I’m sure he can feel my heart beating, I mean hear it beating, I can hear it myself.
Again and again I say: should he turn around towards me he’d see me, then what? Now he heard me mumbling my thoughts, he starting saying, some incantations. A pathway to what I asked myself—, now what, I’m right behind him, three feet:
“I’m Uámak, and below me, is the Minister of Doom, and there are many and various, ways to die, he has on a bone-skull plate, carved into it, seventy-two ways to die. He brings one plate at a time to me, shows them to me. I am forced to look as he mocks me. Doom has a funny sense of humor. He will, I fear, play with me for ages. He says I must select one, and knows I can’t. He gathers my voice and makes echoes out of them, and throws them back at me. Whatever is under the crust of the earth under that water below me—is laughing at me. They know which way has been chosen me, I know you have second sight, so just listen...?”

I was mortified, he turned around and I almost lost control of my physical functions (he was: gloom incarnate; a demigod, or so he looked), and well, lets not get into it. Anyhow, he knew I knew and he wanted me to tell him what has been chosen for his death bed—(silence, or perhaps the cold dungens of the underworld, or torture...’What?” he asked).
‘So that is why I was brought here for (I mumbled to myself, looking at him),’ I didn’t know, and here I was facing now the fingers of doom, as well as the City of Death below him the fingers. I thought then: would this be his long lived death, until he begged hell and Doom itself to set him free, and evidnetly it wouldn’t tell him, thus he called for me, his messenger.
I stared into the blackness where he had been focused, where he was looking into or at, and I couldn’t see completly, what he saw, but what I did see was his death…his doom:
“What do you see?” asked the demigod.
“A being with wings, perhaps ten, putting rocks over your body. You are in a desert, chained to the earth under you, and the rocks over you, you cannot move.”
“What death is this?” he asked me.
“The living death, perhaps the first, second or third... ” I chokingly said.
“Will I be conscious?” he asked.
“Always!...”



Note: Written 8/12/05/revised 8/19/05; revised October 25, 2006.




In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza


Uámak ' s Acuática


Con delicadeza, mi mente seleccionaba una melodía sorda, fuera del espacio muerto oscuro vacío rodeándome…
Yo vi una forma sobre una roca, no seguro de quién era; yo tenía un pensamiento sensitivo llámalo un sentimiento, que siente ello, o la segunda oportunidad; había oído eso antes, no seguro de si quiero poner mucho crédito en ello, pero así sea, la sensibilidad y el entumecimiento estaban allí. No sentí ningún peligro en el momento, en la figura iluminada por la luna, sentada sobre las rocas, estando al acecho, buscando en la profundidad. Realmente conseguí una conciencia de calambres en mi estómago pienso, como ciempiés que mordisquean en ello - de todas las esquinas - en la carne rosada y roja de mis órganos internos, picando sus pequeños colmillos venenosos en ellos.
Tropecé sobre el follaje espeso, perdido en sus plantas espinosas crecidas demasiado salvajes y el fango, y Dios sabe que más; en el corolario, vine al borde cerca del mar, mirando sobre la acuática, al borde de la roca, hacía muchos años ya, que yo había estado aquí. Yo zigzagueaba a través del último de los arbustos, cuidadosamente ahora, esto era el borde de la roca, y entonces consigo yo en una apertura más clara. Yo podía solamente oír los ruidos del cambio de las aguas ahora - las aguas debajo de mí, como el golpe de olas que hace ruido, y salpicando contra las rocas sobresalientes del mar, directamente delante de mí. Pero esto era unos segundos antes de la noche, detrás del crepúsculo, sí de verdad, esto había desaparecido, tragado por una noche inquieta.
La impenetrabilidad siempre parece traer con ello una cantidad ilimitada de amenaza, ¿verdad? Una pregunta retórica a lo mejor, seguro esto es, y aquella figura sobre la marea… se tornaba mas calmada, y las rocas eran el mamut, pasando por alta mar, dentado y con colmillos. El viento apacible sobre la cabeza, no como hace unos minutos, pienso esto, justo de improviso se evaporó. Como estuve a punto de decir, la forma, la silueta sobre la enorme roca, todavía esta examinando el mar; es como si él esta bloqueado en un trance, o que yo soy sólo un gusano para él, y demasiado insuficiente para él para prestarme cualquier atención. Él parece estar hablando con el mismo, o quizás algún monstruo de mar, solo bromeando - pero él se dirige a alguien, algo, y su cabeza dirigida hacia abajo, abajo, abajo hacia el mar. Salvo el hecho no estoy en una ilusión. Un barco de pesca, no, no solamente un navío de alguna clase, no estoy seguro por qué dije el barco de pesca, como lo conozco, esto ha encendido, una luz sobre su cubierta, supongo esto es una cubierta, está muy lejos en la distancia. Anduve ahora, sin objeto pienso, no puedo ver mucho delante de mí, no sea que yo termine en el mar encima de aquel monstruo maldito que no puedo ver, sólo averiguar si es verdadero. Ah bien, justo algunas sombras dejaron la luna un poco más expuesta, pero esto me dio un poco de luz. En septiembre es frío aquí, juro que la estatura tiene algo que ver con esta tarde misteriosa. Aquí fuera de la costa… mis huesos están enfriados. Si usted me preguntara: ¿Que esta haciendo Usted aquí? Yo no podía decirle, yo no tendría la respuesta, haciendo afuera ¿qué? Tal vez aquella figura sobre la roca sabe - él debe estar sólo a cien yardas de mí ahora; esta posibilidad lo averiguaré muy pronto, y usted también. Pienso que ya es de noche, pero que no todo tan tarde. Evidentemente fui dibujado aquí fuera. Yo visitaba a un amigo, usted podría decir, pero sólo después de que llegué. Entonces que fue lo que me provocó tomar este pequeño viaje (otra vez) - su conjetura es tan buena como la mía. He estado en sitios en el mundo entero que parecen utilizar el alma de personas, agitar su pulso hasta el punto en que él tiene o él entra - y termina en, en cualquier parte donde lo haga - en este caso aquí. " Siempre, buen Maestro”, oí ( un murmullo) “…Toma la parte de como es esto …” esto es lo que resonó a mis espaldas, el viento, sí el viento lo empujó atrás en mis oídos del punto donde aquella persona desconocida esta, aquella figura sobre el enorme roca mirando, solamente examinando dentro del - lo que yo asumo, el mar, un agujero negro en el mar, sí de verdad, es lo que él hace, examinando un agujero negro en el mar, por alguna razón extraña, puedo ver que ahora, o podía, esto justo se desvaneció, tan rápido como vino. Evidentemente, era algo más, o yo debería decir, es prospero. - la forma estuvo mirando orgullosa con un tintineo de arrogancia. Me pregunté, ahora estando a varias yardas de distancia lejos: “¿Tiene él una indicación de mi presencia?” ¿”Quién se concentra tan fuerte?, pienso mirando, él esta preguntando al agua del mar algo Quizás alguien; consigo el sentimiento que él ha perdido algo, y quiere negociar para que ello regrese- la muerte entrega muchos deseos en el hombre y la bestia: y él mira para ambos seres. O él esta planeando algo; él es enorme, terriblemente masivo. Daré unos pasos más, una yarda ahora, él debería girar, yo podría pensar. Estoy seguro que él puede sentir el latido de mi corazón, pienso oyendo el latido, puedo oírlo yo mismo. - - ¿Una y otra vez digo que debería él girar hacia mí me vería, entonces qué? Ahora él me oyó mascullando mis pensamientos, comenzando algunos conjuros también. Un sendero que yo, me pregunté-, ¿ahora que?, estoy a la derecha detrás de él, tres pies: - “Soy Uámak, y debajo de mí, esta el Ministro de Destino, y hay muchos y varios, modos de morir, él tiene sobre una placa de hueso de cráneo, tallado en ello, setenta y dos modos de morir. Él me trae una placa a la vez, me los muestra. Me fuerzan a mirar mientras él se burla de mí. El destino tiene un sentido gracioso de humor. El me hará temerlo, el jugó conmigo desde hace siglos. Él dice que debo seleccionar uno, y sé que no puedo. Él une mi voz y lo repite abajo a quienquiera que esta debajo de la corteza de la tierra, como ellos se ríen de mí. ¿Qué camino ha sido escogido para mí, sé que usted tiene la segunda oportunidad? - “Estuve mortificado, él giró y casi perdí el control de mis funciones físicas (él fue la penumbra encarnada; un semidiós, o así el se veía) y bien, no entremos en detalles. De todos modos, él sabía que yo, sabía y él quiso que yo le dijera lo que habíamos escogido para su lecho de muerte. Esto es entonces por lo que fui traído hasta aquí, no conocía, y los dedos de destino así como la Ciudad de la muerte no le dirían, quizás por un largo, muy largo tiempo y esto sería su muerte hasta que él pidiera al infierno y al Destino mismos para decirle; yo fui su mensajero. ¿Miré fijamente en la oscuridad dónde él había estado concentrado, o donde él examinaba, y yo no podía ver lo que él vio, pero lo que yo realmente vi era su muerte …su muerte, - “¿Que ve usted? " preguntó el semidiós. - “Un ser con alas, poniendo rocas sobre tu cuerpo. Usted está en un desierto, encadenado a la tierra bajo usted, y las rocas sobre usted, usted no puede moverse”. - “¿Que muerte es esta?”, él me preguntó. - “El infierno, " ahogándome dije. - "¿Voy a yo estar consciente?", preguntó él. - “¡Siempre! ... "

Monday, October 23, 2006

Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XIV) The Lima Horror

Poets & Poems
Globetrotter Poet
(By D.L. Siluk)) Part XIX))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-23-2006]




The Lima Horror [Revised]


Based on actual happenings, a startling story of intrigue,
From Lima, Peru


Chapter One


Like twilight, creeping over the countryside, so the insidious truth was revealed—but should it have been? Some levelheaded person would say ‘No! Murder is Murder!’ Many said yes.


It is true, that I strangled my patient to death, a client I should say, and yet I hope to show by what I got to say, I am not—in the true sense—a murderer, because I murdered. You might even say I’m someone’s savior, or hero. I have been called a madman, more so, than my dear client, whom I strangled at the prison sanitarium. In due time, I’m sure some of my readers will put fact on top of reality and come to the conclusion I am not a murderer, or executioner, as some have called me. They will even ask themselves: that thing he killed was a horror to our city (Lima) thank god it is gone; yet, up to now, I have seen nothing but mislead statements to the contrary; the rights of the criminal upheld, and of course our great and faithful ‘Human Rights Watch,’ groups take sides with the Butcher the demon.
I am not a psychopath, rather I am a licensed psychologist, or was before this happened; I am not sure—but let others tell it how they feel, I will tell it how I think—he was known as the “Butcher of Lima,” for a good reason too, a man ghastly fitting the name, for the many citizens he butchered, dismembered their bodies; even the police were at their minds end, trying to find and capture this killer, find out whom he really was; once found, they remained in doubt, for he would not confess to it, it was my job to open Pandora’s box—and I did; that is why, the police and the good citizens of Lima know in their hearts the truth of the matter—which of course is more infinitely terrifying than my getting rid of the menace, that is, had he lived.
So in all honesty, I protest the verdict of my sentence of ten-years in prison, and denounce the crime of murder; the murder of the Butcher, that is, I deplore it on the grounds I did the city a civil-service, purge the city clean—of this atrocious beast; now they put me behind bars, it is a blunt message to criminals, they can strike at will, and let the reckoning go on. In a way I sold my soul and career for a bowl of soup. Had I not done what done, what block of untold terrors would be haunting the city today. We shall never know.


Chapter Two


I had known the ‘Butcher,’ for but a short time, he was about my age, taller and stronger. He had a most phenomenal mind, one that shifted back and forth, like a yo-yo, from a child to a scholar; it was at times fantastic and then morbid, but always cast in iron, and it astonished me, until the day, that most impossible day, I cracked the cast and he verbally told me, “I am the Butcher!”
There I stood behind him—he sat in a chair (with thin wooden legs, in the middle of the room, they looked thin anyhow compared to his body, a blackboard behind me, he was facing the window). I coddled him into telling me I suppose—I flowered him with praises, plus his seclusion helped, I’m sure. He was an only child, with a private education. He had his moments, so I learned, with bursts that terrified his parents. Yes indeed, he had quite the inner life; one he could shut down in a minutes notice, or open up if he had the edge. But that, the day I strangled him with my belt, he did not have the edge, unless he felt he did because he was four inches taller than I, and one hundred pounds heavier. This most likely fostered some kind of freedom, but did he not have the imagination, that I would, or could try to kill him, he was vulnerable you know. Oh well, I will never know. Now will I.
His childhood development pattern was for the most part, hideous, he‘d tare apart wooden dressers, under fits of anger, wait for his parents, or babysitters, and try to strike them with the objects. Until he was put into Juvenile custody, and locked up in a child center for behavior modification; consequently, that is when he learned he needed an edge, lest he find himself back in the institution.
At any rate, here he was, and here I was, he sitting in a chair, myself behind him and he says, “Yes, sir, I killed them all….” About that time I had leaned forward on the chair—my weight on its wooden back, my hands gripped tightly—I got, a grotesque feeling in my lower abdomen, I found his spirit, it was now connected to mine, his evil one that is (I visualized his tongue sagging out of his mouth, like a dead bull), then my nerves started crumbling—as time went on and we continued to talk, I created (in minutes I would think) a plan, design like a poem, to do away with him. Our comradeship, as he thought we had, which was really a client-ship, suffered at that moment, my genius developed a scheme to kill him, the lyrics were real sensational: “…kill his will, and you kill the madness of the bull (inside of him).”
Oh, yes, the will, the will, the will, I said to myself, gazing over his shoulders, the notorious will, its door (his door) will never close to murder; and for myself, this ill-regarded poem made sense to me. In all practicality, I had to kill him; at the moment his pampered childish state was acting out, he was dependent on me for the most part, at this instant, though I had to be over careful: next, I made a decision knowing he would not assume responsibility—never would he, I mean.


Chapter Three


So it was at this moment I quickly seized my opportunity. I had studied at all the best universities in Peru—all which is, that Peru had to offer in higher education. Studied with American as well as with European scholars; we talked a lot in those days, discussions on behavior development, modification, decadence, sensitiveness, social comparison, Operant Conditioning, discernment, changing formal reasoning, hypnosis, psychosis, neuroses, depression: you name it we talked about it, if it was in our professional area. Yes, I quickly seized the moment, knowing nothing would work in the long run for my client, this architect of destruction—I say nothing, therefore, our society would feed him, cloth him, and in ten-years, set him free to slaughter again, he was better off deed, than a burden to the tax payers. Yes, yes, I came to regard him as a carp, scavenger of sorts, and Satan’s invisible hand.
With a few brisk strokes, I found my leather belt un-clipped, and in my hands, and then I looked, —I mean, I stared at his thick obscure bronze neck. It would take me three minutes—that is all, just three long, very long minutes, I did not know at the time, but a lot of images would flash into my subconscious during those long, long minutes. He talked very little towards the end of the session, or last session, almost daring me, yes, that is what he was doing, daring me—boldly, and silently daring me: he was like a dead ape in that chair—a smart bold childish dead ape, that sat up straight—erect, in an ironic pose—
I suppose what he did become was a devotee of mine, he sat in a liberated way, and I put the belt around his thick neck quickly, and hung on for dear life, like a wild bull ride I thought we’d have (I was ready), strange he was, puzzlement, his eyes popped out, his face thinned to an assortment of dim colors, his tongue hung loose after it all, like the dead bull I talked about before. The child was gone now, my poet instinct also. I may have been his closest, if not only, friend, so he thought; a product and residue of prolonged psychotherapy—a conjecture.
He remained in the chair, perhaps by inertia—I don’t know, but he did not have my protectiveness anymore, nor did I balance him after my pursuit with my hands; when this war was over, it was simply over, or call it psychological difficulty, in any case, I felt an exhilaration; to this day, this very day, his presence still haunts me, extremely at times, as if he had some kind of black magic spell cast upon me, before he died.


Conclusion:


There are tales of horrible about this strange fellow, tales such I dare not repeat, he was easily aggravated by the fact he knew he’d die insane, under rather queer circumstances, perhaps; even, conceivably me killing him was his so-called expected future ritual I do believe—we provoke people to such stages you know, provoke them to kill is, in fear, we have to do it ourselves, although he did not say anything to that affect, he never would. That is to say, he did it, now he wanted to experience the other side of it, a speculation of course, but perhaps a good one. I mean all he had was facial rumors and whispers from his dying victims to stop, but he never asked me to stop, and he never stopped for them. Fiendishly done to his liking, curious things like this is of course baffling to me, but it marvels the mind, especially when one finds out it is more truthful than thought. On the other hand, bad reality for some I expect: idealism for others. What can I say? He was most unusual, but I had never had a case like his before, He was, beyond question, a genuine psychopath. Consciously I did the right thing, but I question: was it worth only a bowl of soup [?]


Notes: Dennis Siluk has had many discussions with the actual psychologist whom was accused of murdering the Butcher of Lima, whom served his prison time and now is out free, and sells his books in the parks of Lima, Peru. The Psychologist has been to his house for breakfast as they’ve talked on such matters, and here he produces in historical fiction form, how he sees the events unfolding to a horror that took place in Lima. Written in Lima, Peru, 10-23-2006. Conjecture, and facts are mixed.