Perspective. A poem.

I face my window
Pale droplets obscure
The external world
In my tiny womb I turn
To face another day

If you liked that, then you’ll love the poems in my first book The All or the Nothing! And at just $5.99 for 62 poems, that’s less than 10 cents a poem!
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Anvil. Part 9.

A sonic boom cracks the sky beneath the floating city. Tossing to and fro in the wild surf below, the little inflatable raft seems little more than a speck on the ocean’s roiling back. The aging interceptor slows and pulls up twenty metres above it, hovering unsteadily in the wind and rain.

Big Jimmy eyes the jet above, one hand shielding his eyes from percussive rain drops. “This a rescue? Or someone else to wanting to kill us?”

Observing the hovering silhouette, Chun pulls her pumpgun from her back holster and cocks it. The Anvil stares dourly at her. “A bit out of range, don’t you think?”

“Of course. But not for long, I suspect,” replies Chun.

***

Johnston watches the overhead monitor. The three figures in the boat below are shrouded in downpour and the image distorts further every few seconds. He hits the monitor with his palm. “Damn it, Kanji, can you get this picture any better?”

The pilot turns back, her metal eye pieces glinting in the cabin light. “You have a choice, Boss. We can take a dip in the ocean where you’ll get a better view, or I can keep this jet stable and you can have a crappy one. What’ll it be?”

Johnston swears. “Okay, I can’t tell who’s who down there, so we’ll have to assume they’re all hostile.” Jayle and Sarain smile at each other, activating various arm-mounted weapons: EMP cannon, Ion Taser, Plasma Net. “No fatalities,” Johnston says.

“Boss, we’re professionals,” says Jayle, winking. Her IT and PN mods are visible outside their forearm housings.

Sarain strokes her EMG, her massively oversized arms and chest armour barely fitting in the cabin. “Just open the door and let me have one shot.”

As if on command, the cabin door slides aside and the elements introduce themselves. Sarain leans out and fires a silent pulse at the raft below.

***

The Anvil’s systems die. She was about to attempt a shot from her MWEs when they both ceased functioning, returning involuntarily to their forearm housings. Chun sees the look of alarm on the Anvil’s usually unmoving masculine countenance.

“Probably an EMP pulse,” Chun says. “It’ll take a few minutes for your systems to reboot. Big Jimmy, time to show us what that antique handgun of yours can do.”

“Shit,” says Jimmy, pulling out his Magnum as he continues to shield his eyes from the deluge.

An amplified voice from above: “Lay down your weapons. We know about the armature. We don’t want any trouble. We can get you out of this storm.”

***

Johnston has his eye on the monitor; he can see some movement amongst the blur. “Stage two,” he says. He squeezes over to the cabin door, takes out his plasma pistol and uses the infrared viewfinder to target the raft floor between the three glowing red figures below.

The raft bottom shreds: it immediately collapses and the three occupants go down into the surrounding waters. Jayle and Sarain speed down into the chaos on droplines.

***

Water clouds her senses. The Anvil’s bulky male form drops like a stone, sinking, sinking. She flails her arms and legs uselessly, a string-less marionette. The jet above recedes as the cloying darkness consumes her. She glances to her back capsule to see Violet, thumb in mouth, but calm, protected from suffocating and the changes in pressure as they sink lower.

Above, an immense black shape collides with the surface and shoots down, some sort of propellant system in its boots. The Anvil sees a huge, hulking black woman, tube-like hair flailing like angry, radioactive snakes. The woman’s massive torso and oversized arms close around the Anvil and drag her up, up, up to the surface and away from the sea’s cold embrace.

As the Anvil’s head breaks the water she sees another woman, with sharp blonde hair and shining, metallic legs, suspended via dropline from the interceptor above and lifting two unconscious bodies in a glowing net.

The droplines retract and the Anvil and her companions are pulled up to the hovering jet.

***

The cabin is very cramped. Johnston eyes the Anvil warily. The armature is still restrained by Sarain from behind, the EMP cannon pushing into her temple. Chun and Jimmy are unconscious, the depleted plasma net hanging loosely around their forms as Jayle awkwardly takes her place on the bench.

“We won’t harm you,” Johnston says. “But try anything stupid and you’re all on a one-way trip back to the bottom. Are we clear?”

The Anvil nods.

Sarain glances at Johnston. “The asset is safe. Looks like she’s gone to sleep.”

“Where are you taking us?” says the Anvil. “Do you work for Bester?”

Johnston laughs. “You think we’d be travelling in this piece of crap if we had the backing of the world’s richest man? You’re in the waveruins. The Chao Triad wants a chat with you.”

The Anvil stares blankly.

“And Lady Chao isn’t very happy about losing a plane and a fire team. I guess you’ll have to explain that to her once we get back.”

The jet arcs and weaves through the surrounding skeletal buildings that extend from their watery resting places like broken teeth.

The Anvil’s systems are back online. She scans the surrounding cyborgs, noting armaments and calculating potential firing patterns and escape vectors. The EMG pushes hard against her head. “You’re not the only one here who can classivise,” whispers Sarain. “I suggest you sit back and enjoy the ride. I wouldn’t want the little girl or your friends to get hurt in an unfortunate crossfire.”

“That’s good advice,” concurs Johnston, strapping in.

The Anvil settles back uncomfortably, mind racing. Outside the rain dashes against the hull as the interceptor nears its destination—the headquarters of Lady Chao.

To be continued…

Missed earlier instalments? Click here.

What is ANVIL?

ANVIL is a deliberately unplanned, multi-part short story I’ve created to challenge myself as a writer (I’ve done this before with The Sale – check it out). My intention is to write an episode as often as possible, generally (but not always) ending with a cliff hanger, then work out how to solve the dilemma and continue the story. I have no idea how the story will progress, no idea what it’s about until I get there.

Only you can tell me if it’s successful, or not. I hope you enjoy my continuing experiment.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Mirrored. A poem.

I mirrored you subconsciously,
perhaps you noticed you in me.
You mirrored me subconsciously,
perhaps I noticed, but didn’t see.

Neither mirror could reveal
beyond the veil, our hesitancy.
Neither mirror would let us read
of love, of fate, of destiny.

If you liked that, then you’ll love the poems in my first book
The All or the Nothing!

And at just $5.99 for 62 poems, that’s
less than 10 cents a poem!
To find out how to get a copy, click here.

Support starving poets everywhere!

Happy Endings. A poem.

Is there any such thing
as a happy ending?

Maybe only in books and
history told by the winner,
but not for me and you,
we lonely sinners.
I find I no longer
believe in fairy tales
or story book codas.
But all I really want to see
is a life long happy ending
for me and you, you and me.

Is there any such thing
as a happy ending?

If you liked that, then you’ll love the poems in my first book of poetry,
The All or the Nothing, and at just $5.99 for 62 poems, that’s less than 10 cents a poem!
To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

The Truth. A poem.

What would I do
if you belonged to another?
No hanging tree exists
that could free my heart
from your beloved tether.
Would I drown myself
in the incumbent surf,
or throw myself
from the weary heights,
dash all my hopes and dreams
with vertigo and a somnolent end?
Why am I frozen here,
the icy curlicues surrounding me
and choking by degrees
until I can move no more?
Speak to me, and I will answer
truthfully.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and at just $5.99 for 62 poems, that’s less than 10 cents a poem! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Advice for the Young (Poet) at Heart

Poetry was not really my thing.

I wrote poetry as a shy, insecure and sensitive teenager, much as other shy, insecure and sensitive teenagers did, but as I grew older it lost its allure. Not because I was less inclined (I was in bands and writing my own music and lyrics by that stage), not because I was any less shy, more secure, or insensitive, but because it no longer seemed to be needed to express what I was feeling (I think alcohol did that instead). But I’m not a teenager anymore, being just shy of middle-age. Now I’m a student, a would-be writer and a recalcitrant.

About twelve months ago, I woke up at 4:00am in the morning (nothing new there, I generally wake up at ridiculous times of the night with my head spinning) and immediately wrote a poem which I posted to my blog (see below). It’s the piece of writing that reignited my youthful passion for writing poetry.

Reborn.

Darkness then

             warming rays

                         bright fingers on my face

Cellphone silence

              binary muse

                          prod me back to life

Womb of sheets

               engulfs my being

                          consumed alive

Silken lover

                her promise yields

                           to the light

Reborn.

Stephen Thompson

Since I wrote that poem, I haven’t been able to stop. I write poems when I’m walking, when I’m sitting on the toilet, when I’m eating (hopefully not all at the same time). I have a vast amount of inspiration to draw on (as a result of my less than spectacular life choices).

Having rediscovered my own poetry, I find I am not as well read when it comes to poets as I should be. One particular poem I love is The Road Not Taken, by multiple Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Robert Frost, as it holds personal meaning for me in my less than spectacular life’s journey so far. Choice and predestination are things I could chat about for hours, but I’m sure you’d rather read the poem.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
 
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
 
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

As an amateur poet, I recommend that all amateur poets read as much poetry as possible and learn as much about the craft as possible, including the various formal poetic forms and meter and time. A great place to start is The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms, by Mark Strand and Eavan Boland, which includes poems from throughout the ages by some of the greatest living and dead poets.

Cheers

Steve 😊

My first e-book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now. And at just $5.99 for 62 poems, that’s less than 10 cents a poem!
To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Tomb Raider. A movie review.

There’s no such thing as spoilers (in this review, anyway)!

Alicia Vikander is the new Tomb Raider (for those of you not familiar with the previous movie incarnation, Angelina Jolie was the titular heroine), and she ably fills the tank top—umm…role.

This is a reboot of the franchise, based heavily on the popular computer game reboot of 2013 (so many reboots…). Lara Croft (Vikander) is a girl with no direction to her life after losing her rich father (Dominic West) seven years ago. Refusing to accept that he’s dead, she hasn’t taken over the Croft fortune and title and is living a simple life as a bike messenger in inner city London. She receives a Japanese puzzle from her missing father which sets her on a quest to find him and the tomb of Himiko, the mythical Queen of Yamatai, a supposed sorceress with power over death.

Tomb Raider Movie

I enjoyed Tomb Raider. In this origin movie Vikander is a feisty, yet vulnerable underdog, who kicks some serious ass along the way. She’s very physical in the role (Vikander did the majority of her own stunts), but at no point does this Lara Croft seem unbelievably super heroic. Some of the set pieces are over the top, but through them all you believe that Lara is scraping through, stubbornly fighting on. One thing I would have liked was more opportunities for Vikander to show her stuff—a few more action set pieces wouldn’t have gone astray.

Go see Tomb Raider if you like gritty, believable action heroines who feel pain. And bring it, as well.

Rating: B  

Back to Life. A poem.

The sun shone through,
my hope returned,
and I drifted on rays
of sutured miracles that
stitched the dark and light
together. And like the
Creator Himself, brought
me shining back to life.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and at just $5.99 for 62 poems, that’s less than 10 cents a poem! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Anvil. Part 8.

The tall old woman is angry. She throws her cup of shoujiu across the room where it shatters against the wall. “They took my interceptor?” Her eyes are narrow slits, her crow’s feet now a delta fanning both sides of her face. The armoured men kneel before her, heads bowed to the floor. One watches her nervously with wide almond eyes, the other, a strong chinned black man with a sharp goatee, scowls silently.

“Lady Chao, we could not have imagined—” says the first.

Chao rises from her throne, an extremely rare wooden item (where does one get wood, nowadays?), hand carved with weaving oriental dragons. Her hands clasp and unclasp rhythmically, long red nails glinting in the glowglobe light. The woman’s blue artisilk robe sways in a serpentine rhythm as she walks. Reaching down, Chao grabs the speaker by the neck, lifts him like a marionette. The sleeve of her robe falls back, revealing a shiny durasteel forearm, engraved with intertwining snakes and flowering vines in garish neon hues. The man’s neck snaps with the sound of a branch breaking and she tosses his lifeless body into the far wall. The black man grimaces.

“It’s up to you, Johnston,” she says, striding back to her throne. “Recover the girl. The interceptor is expendable.” Her eyes drill into him. “As are you.” Johnston gulps imperceptibly, backs away from his master and exits the room quicker than he would like.

* * *

The launch tower is in sight, about ten kilometres away. The interceptor bounces through the squall, swooping and re-correcting as needed.

“Of course, I thought you knew how to fly this thing,” says Granny Chun, strapped into a cabin bench seat. Next to her, Violet grips her teddy and grins. “It’s like being on a roller coaster,” she says. Big Jimmy, on the other side, holds his head in his hands, occasionally stroking his full beard nervously. “Give me my Clarissa any day,” he says.

In front, the Anvil struggles with the flight controls. “Apparently the sim progs didn’t cover bad weather.” She looks to the readouts around her, glances at the tower ahead. Even from this distance, there’s no mistaking the size of the thing—a kilometre-wide metal platform, rising three hundred metres above the surface of the waters, bristling with antennae, thermal exhaust towers and nearspace shuttles. Their way off this world.

They are five kilometres from the tower when the port engine explodes in a hail of debris, smoke and fire. The interceptor immediately starts to drop, the age-old systems straining and failing to correct its altitude.

“What the hell was that?” cries Big Jimmy. “What is it with people wanting to kill you?” His antique Magnum appears in one hand as the other steadies him.

“Of course, you should put that away,” says Granny Chun, whisperingly calm. “We don’t want a stray shot hitting anyone.”

Jimmy stares at his piece uncomprehendingly, then sheepishly slides it back into his leg holster. “Sorry,” he says.

The Anvil looks around, trying to sight the attacker through the plastiglass canopy. She checks the scanner. Nothing. The interceptor spirals towards the ocean. “Chun, look for some life jackets,” she says.

* * *

The hologram from his palm chip fades as Johnston jogs to the flight bay. Beside a big antique interceptor wait three augmented women, with bodies punctuated by scarring, cybernetic parts, dermaplastics and dangling neural fibres. “Kanji,” he says to a huge African woman with a massive barbed metal arm, dreadlocks and glowing red visual receptors for eyes. “Start her up.” Kanji immediately boards the jet and the engines churn to life. Johnston climbs into the back and straps himself into the rear bench. The other two women follow.

“The rogue interceptor has just been downed by one of my contacts at the launch tower,” says Johnston. “We have less than five minutes to get there and recover the girl. We need to get her before Bester’s men do. I’m feeding you ocular video from our assault troops of the armature and the other occupants of the jet.” Each of the women pauses briefly as they review a replay of the Clarissa assault on their retinal links.

Jayle, with a scarred angular face, spiked blonde hair and durasteel legs, smiles. “L-series armature: subdermal mesh, megajoule MWEs, endura core, protein revitalisers, reformative layering. Nice.”

Sarain, dark skinned with oversized zylex torso and arms and glowing neural fibre hair, winks. “A nice challenge, y’mean,” she says. She extends an electromagnetic pulse cannon from one of her forearm housings.

Johnston frowns, remembering the throne room. “No screw ups,” he says.

“You worry too much, boss,” says Kanji from the pilot’s seat.

The jet rises on a plume of superheated air and exits the hangar at top speed, slicing through the rain and wind and leaving the waveruin tower behind.

* * *

Water is streaming in through cracks in the fuselage. The Anvil pops Violet into her back capsule, sealing the little girl away from harm, then straps on a life jacket that’s far too small for her broad male frame. Chun pops the side door. Water sluices in, filling the cabin to waist height. A raft inflates. Jimmy struggles to exit and falls in face first, swearing as he does. Chun follows, groaning as her wounded leg makes contact. The Anvil follows last as the interceptor sinks beneath the waves in a coda of spume and froth. The raft is buffeted left and right, half full with rain and surf, the Anvil’s side dipping low under her weight.

“Well, this trip just keeps getting better and better,” says Jimmy, water cascading down his dark face.

To be continued…

Missed earlier instalments? Click here.

What is ANVIL?

ANVIL is a deliberately unplanned, multi-part short story I’ve created to challenge myself as a writer (I’ve done this before with The Sale – check it out). My intention is to write an episode as often as possible, generally (but not always) ending with a cliff hanger, then work out how to solve the dilemma and continue the story. I have no idea how the story will progress, no idea what it’s about until I get there.

Only you can tell me if it’s successful, or not. I hope you enjoy my continuing experiment.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Bleach. A poem.

Acid

wash away my pain

release me
from
this
blinkered

Bleach

burns me clean and pure

tear shreds off my heart
and break
me

Down

Until time bleeds on
my
just

Reward

And bleaches this
world

just

like

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and at just $5.99Au for 62 poems, that’s less than 10 cents a poem! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

The End of the Affair. A poem.

At the end of the affair,
when all is lost, was won,
when the final note is written
when all has come undone.
The longing and the passion
converted now to envy,
the embers now black charcoal
of fires that once burned brightly.
The guilt remains, it always seems,
entwined with all the lies,
an empty feeling of redemption,
of honour, long defiled.
When familiar scents turn stale
and insomnia becomes your partner,
how dim the lights do seem
how the shadows seem much darker.
Life returns to humdrum,
an absence of spontaneity
at the end of the affair
no love, just shame and frailty.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Hangman. A poem.

I hang on your every word.
Every nuance and subtlety
tightens your noose
and I gasp and grasp
for air and the latency of truth.

My limbs flail in puppet motions;
I’m a paper doll with button joints,
anointed in your sonic weave
and desperate for your affection.

Pull on this rope, hang me high
until my final death rattle
punctuates the scene like gunfire,
the memory of your voice fades
and I am left longing for more.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Wings. A poem.

You endow me with gossamer wings,
a loving benefaction granted;
a gift that encapsulates and enables
flight to peregrine places
uncharted and exotic.

But with so many destinations
and arterial paths and so
many cloudy possibilities,
only one makes any sense:
the one that leads directly
and succinctly to you.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Annihilation. A movie review.

Alex Garland’s new science fiction movie, Annihilation, is now available on Netflix in Australia (part of Paramount’s current risk management strategy is to recoup production and distribution costs in smaller markets by going directly to streaming).

Natalie Portman stars as Lena, a Cellular Biologist with an Army background, whose army husband Jake (Oscar Isaac) has been missing for a year. One day he turns up, but he seems like a different man. He also starts vomiting blood. On the way to hospital, the ambulance is intercepted by government vehicles. Lena awakens and discovers the government has a secret watch post overlooking an area called the ‘Shimmer’ – a hazy and colourful border of light that frames the site of an alien meteor that hit a lighthouse on the coast. The Shimmer is expanding. Several military teams have been sent in, but none have returned, and the Shimmer prevents radio communications. Lena joins a group of female scientists, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, Gina Rodriguez, Tessa Thompson, and Tuva Novotny, to attempt to get to the lighthouse and discover what’s going on. Inside the Shimmer everything is mutating—plants, animals, the environment itself. It isn’t long before the scientists find out what happened to the last team and the implications for them…

Annihilation-movie-poster

Annihilation is a slow-moving thriller, with generally subdued acting (except when things get a little crazy). The special effects are exceptional, with the Shimmer almost hallucinogenic at times. None of the characters are particularly likable, but then, this is a movie about a concept, rather than the people involved. There’s a fair bit of explicit violence as well, so be prepared.

Annihilation has been hailed by some reviewers as both revelatory and confusing. I wasn’t confused, but not because I’m particularly smart. Annihilation is a movie you need to pay attention to and some viewers just won’t get it. I don’t believe that Annihilation is as ground breaking as some think. It is, however, a well-directed, intelligent, slow burn sci-fi movie, with a great concept and a nice twist at the end.

I enjoyed Annihilation. It’s not as good as Arrival, another recent thought-provoking sci-fi movie which provided a greater emotional connection with its characters, but it’s still an enjoyable concept film.

Rating: B-

Night, Again. A poem.

Night, again
and here I am,
pondering the specificity
of my unctuous requests,
enraptured and Heaven-sent
on the backs of clasped palms,
no random incidental
tests of charm.

Every night
I thank Him there,
for faith and hope and grace,
every single day I share.
all part, this humble life
under His long
forgiving stare.

Every night
I ask for love,
that this be finally done,
because without her this life
is lost and never won.
Without her
I am nothing
and no one.

And then
I turn again
to sleep, and join billions
of patient souls who pray
for all their souls to keep.
I dream of love and subtlety,
with those who wonder when
their prayers will bring them
long and
sweet
relief.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Anvil. Part 7.

It’s six hours out and Granny Chun vomits into the bucket for the seventh time. She groans and spits bile into the foul, bitter broth meandering at the bottom of the pail.

Violet is out of her capsule, sleeping restfully, strapped into a seat next to the Anvil. The boat heaves and sways in the racking winds. Big Jimmy laughs as he stands on a raised platform so he can reach the wheel. Outside the tiny cabin, water cascades in sheets off toughened plastiglass.

“This is the life,” cries Jimmy, breaking into a sea shanty.

“Of course, you are such a cliché,” murmurs Chun from her bucket.

The Anvil sits stolidly, immune to the effects of the storm and the constant churning of the seas around them. She stares at her male hands—big, meaty things, far larger than the dainty palms and delicate fingers she imagines she had before. Still, she struggles to remember, and yearns for a Memjet to clear the haze and let her see everything clearly.

She glances at Violet. The little girl is fast asleep; it’s almost as if the tot was tucked away in bed, and not affixed to a padded steel chair in a tiny boat bouncing in the middle of a raging ocean. The Anvil doesn’t know how the child does it. In fact, she knows very little about her child at all. Her appalling lack of memory is disturbing. Armature rebirths aren’t supposed to have recall problems; they’re not unheard of, but they’re extremely rare. The Anvil just wishes she could show some spark of recognition, some lingering emotion towards her daughter. I guess that will come soon enough, she thinks.

Around them in the distance, the husks of broken buildings stand like waylaid fisherman, up to their necks in surf and rain, waiting to be saved. Above the silent overcity hovers, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions, streams of sunlight breaking through between the grav-supported spires, like the blessings of God.

* * *

The old interceptor wends its way through sleeting rain, sleek wings folded back as it cruises at top speed, dancing between rain drops, riding the wind like an exotic dancer on a mirrored dancefloor.

“We have the boat in sight,” says the helmeted pilot. “Running in silent mode.” The wings extend and engine exhaust vents rotate downwards as it slows, maintaining its altitude over the churning ocean.

Behind the pilot, five men in battered combat armour, hefting aging autofire rifles. The closest has his helmet off; he’s bald, with almond eyes and diamond cheek bones. “Take us in and hover. We’ll downdrop and see what we’ve got,” he says.

“No problem, Mister Tano,” says the pilot. The antiquated interceptor hovers silently, fifty feet over the bobbing boat, matching the vessel’s course. The steel grey armoured men move to the hatch, where they attach droplines to the collars of their dermasuits. Tano replaces his helmet and signals to the others. “Okay, drop and drag,” he says, motioning with his fingers in a coded series of movements reiterating what he’s saying. “Non-lethal fire. The child is not to be harmed.”

The side door slides open with a screech and the cabin’s internal calm is broken by buffeting wind and spray. The troops launch out and down, the droplines taking them at speed to the vessel’s deck below. The wind shakes them about momentarily, but the droplines stay true, guiding them to the heaving floor. Each lands softly on the rain-soaked deck, weapons raised and ready, the cabin hatch before them. Tano gestures two of his men to each side of the door, the others behind him. As he signals to move forward, the hatchway explodes outwards and the Anvil flies headfirst into his chest.

The other troops respond, firing at the big armature as its MWEs extend from its forearms and fry two of them. They collapse to the deck, along with a bloody and unconscious Tano, whose breast bone and ribs are broken. The Anvil takes numerous non-lethal shots, but they bounce off its subdermal protection harmlessly. The remaining two men switch to lethal rounds, but it’s too late. The Anvil swings around, grabs a leg of each and rips them from their bodies in a torrent of blood. Their screams are lost in the roar of the surf.

Overhead the interceptor is starting to rise. The Anvil grabs a dropline from the collar of one of the downed troops and hits the recall. The line immediately drags her up into the air. She enters the cabin; the pilot is pointing a big, old fashioned auto pistol at her chest. He fires. Ion shells find their mark and the Anvil collapses backwards against the frame. One of her MWEs fries the pilot’s head and he collapses over the glowing control board that encircles him.

There’s an explosion below. Looking down, the Anvil sees the aft of the Clarissa is now bits and pieces of detritus, spamming the roiling waves. The vessel is upending and sinking fast. She can see Chun, Jimmy and Violet, soaked and clinging to the cabin hatchway. Chun indicates the droplines still attached to the bodies and latches them to the others and herself. The three rise to the interceptor as the boat slithers below the surface, taking the armoured corpses with it.

As they climb wearily into the hovering jet, Big Jimmy is in shock. “My boat,” he moans. “My beautiful Clarissa.” The Anvil pulls some thermal blankets from an overhead locker, distributes them.

“Of course, that was unexpected,” says Chun, sneezing. Violet sucks her thumb and holds her teddy tight. Chun wraps the blanket around and cuddles her.

The Anvil throws the pilot’s body out the side door and closes it. “I’ll reimburse you for the loss of the boat, Jimmy. I don’t know what happened. It’s possible my MWEs burned through your outboards. Sorry.” The Anvil’s angular male face is stony and emotionless.

Big Jimmy is rocking back and forth, wide-eyed. “You blew up my boat? That’s my living right there. Poof. Gone.”

The Anvil ignores Jimmy for the moment, seats herself behind the control console and looks over the instrumentation. The layout looks complex but is actually fairly simple to operate. She’s sure she has some piloting progs that will help her sim her way through it. The biggest issue, now, is where did this vehicle and its goons come from?

“Of course, I don’t think those guys were sent by Bester,” says Chun, as if reading her mind.

“Who then?” says the Anvil, eyes flicking over the controls.

“Of course, I’d say someone informed on us to the local Surfer Mob. They control the waveruins and run the local rackets. They probably know that Bester is searching for his baby girl. He would have reached out to them when she first went missing, I suppose.” Chun smiles wanly. “Of course, they probably thought they could get more for her via a little blackmail.”

“At least now we can get to the tower quicker,” says the Anvil.

“Of course, they’ll track us.”

“All the more reason to move fast.”

Big Jimmy rocks gently in his seat. “Who are you crazy-ass people, anyway? I said I’d take you to the tower, not get shot the hell up by the mob. What do I do now?”

The Anvil turns and smiles her masculine smile, perfect teeth gleaming. “I guess you’re coming along with us, Jimmy.”

Jimmy scowls. “Great. Just great. I suppose I can get my ass handed to me by someone else along the way?”

“Of course,” says Granny Chun.

 To be continued…

Missed earlier instalments? Click here.

What is ANVIL?

ANVIL is a deliberately unplanned, multi-part short story I’ve created to challenge myself as a writer (I’ve done this before with The Sale – check it out). My intention is to write an episode as often as possible, generally (but not always) ending with a cliff hanger, then work out how to solve the dilemma and continue the story. I have no idea how the story will progress, no idea what it’s about until I get there.

Only you can tell me if it’s successful, or not. I hope you enjoy my continuing experiment.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Haiku Friday. ‘Caught, Caged and Sentenced’. A haiku trilogy.

Caught, Caged and Sentenced. A haiku trilogy.

Caught
You have trapped me here.
I once wandered, so lonely,
until your net fell.

Caged
I am in your cage,
your pristine cell; I’m locked in,
pacing back and forth.

Sentenced
Will you set me free?
Or will you taunt and tease me,
then leave me to rot?

Oh, delicious haiku! Your 5/7/5 syllable structure had me at ‘hello’. Or maybe that should be ‘haiku’.

Steve 🙂

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Upstart Photographer: colour is back!

Black and white photos? Love ’em! But every once in a while I like brilliant and vibrant colour.

Here’s a few shots in their trimmed, yet unfiltered glory. I’ve included some narration, as I’m a big fan of David Attenborough. Mimic his voice as you read. It’s more like a documentary, that way.

I love the textures in the sandstone of this wall. If you prefer roads, however, just turn your device on its side.

As you know, I like to skew my shots. As a photographic hack, I like to think it’s a bit arty. But it could be I just skew naturally. Possibly as the result of my daily bottle of vodka.

Purely for medicinal reasons, of course.

I love the sea, and would gladly make my home on the beach if I didn’t get arrested for vagrancy (especially if I’m found clutching my medicinal bottle of vodka). And the wifi there isn’t so great, either.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

The Madness of You. A poem.

My futile and unavailing words cannot
express the anguished, quixotic,
melancholic, mad salience and
utterly unquenchable need
to hold you and love you
as no one ever could
or would or should.
But here I am,
alone.
Thinking
of nothing
and no one
else but you.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

This Oil. A poem.


This
oil,
viscous
and
thick,
holding
me
fast
in
the
tar
pit
of
my
black
heart
and
head,
since
the
very
start.
Wish
I
could
shed
this
black
dog
That
follows
me
everywhere.
Perhaps
soon,
anon,
I’ll
lose
my
empty
stare.
And
this
oil
will drain
out of me and this
crazy foil will set me free
to be something other than this oil

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Subtract. A poem.

This room is overcrowded,
ingurgitated hell.
But just you and me,
if you subtract everyone else.

This room is clamorous,
cacophonous hell.
But you could hear me (so very clearly),
if you subtract everyone else.

This room is overheated,
agitated as hell.
But algid enough for you and me,
if you subtract everyone else.

But if you subtract everyone else,
would you want to be
right here with me?
Perhaps, we’ll never know or see.

My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online distributors. To find out more, click here.

Red Sparrow. A movie review.

A few minor spoilers!

Red Sparrow is a harrowing spy movie starring Jennifer Lawrence and Joel Edgerton and directed by Francis Lawrence. Why harrowing? Because it includes several excruciating scenes of graphic torture and explicit violence (there’s sex, too—surprisingly it’s kept to a minimum, but it’s generally pretty nasty as well).

Lawrence plays a Russian ballerina whose career is ended when her leg is broken. She’s about to lose her home and medical support for her disabled mother, and turns to her sleazy uncle, who works for the Russian Security Services. He places her in a situation where she witnesses a state-sanctioned murder and is forced to work for the government as a ‘Sparrow’, a spy trained in seduction. Off she goes to a dehumanising Sparrow school, where attractive women and men are taught psychological and sexual manipulation.

Lawrence is given a mission to discover a mole and encounters Edgerton’s disgraced CIA agent, who’s protecting the mole. That’s about as far as I can go without spoiling the story further.

Red Sparrow is a cat-and-mouse spy story about post-cold war politics, the incongruity of human nature, the patriarchal abuse of women and the lengths people will go to for revenge and survival. It’s better than you might think, although at times the director’s push for realism can make it a disturbing viewing experience.

Rating: B-

Anvil. Part 6.

They tramp down five flights in faulty glowglobe dimness, skirting sleeping derelicts and the occasional Verso dealer. They are given wide berth by the occupants; Granny Chun’s pumpgun speaks volumes without ever needing to bark. Eventually they reach a level just above the thrashing surf—dockside. Parts of the floor are gone (collapsed or removed, who can tell), and destitute and cobbled-together boats and skiffs bob and float on the water just below. There are shanties of rudely constructed metal and plastic around the floor, some with signs advertising fishing and ferry services.

“This doesn’t seem like the sort of place to find reliable people who can keep secrets,” says the Anvil, drily. “And these vessels don’t look particularly seaworthy.” She remembers the boat she viewed from the city above, tossing and upending in the sea below, its passengers dancing in quicksand waters.

Granny Chun smiles. “Of course, I know a surreptitious guy.” She leads the way through the ghetto, avoiding campfires and offal buckets, nets and fishing rods, dirty-faced fishermen and wandering down-and-outs. At the far end of the floor, she comes to a tin shed with a large, hand-scrawled sign in front: Big Jimmy’s Ferry. Cheap rates. No refunds. A small, patched and pockmarked boat with an enclosed cabin rises and falls in the hole beside the shed. Chun raps on the door. “Jimmy! Open up, it’s Granny Chun.” The Anvil checks the surrounding area, but her scans reveal nothing out of the ordinary.

The door opens and the Anvil looks down at a short, bearded man; less than four-feet tall, with fiery eyes highlighted by his coffee-ground skin. The antique revolver he brandishes is almost as big as his forearm. When he sees Chun his mood lightens considerably. “Hey, Granny Chun; long time.” He glances suspiciously upwards at the Anvil. “Who’s this?”

Chun smiles. She’s short, but still a foot taller than Big Jimmy. “We need a ride Jimmy. A long one.” Jimmy checks out the surrounds, sneers at some nosey neighbours. “Come on in,” he says.

Inside the shed (which is larger inside than it first appeared, with accoutrements similar to Chun’s place but slightly more upmarket), he invites them to sit at a round table. The chairs surrounding it are normal sized; Jimmy uses a stool for a leg up into his. “So, tell me what you need.” He places his revolver on the table next to him.

Chun and the Anvil sit. Jimmy eyes the pod extending from the Anvil’s back, the sleeping girl within. “I’m not a babysitter,” he says.

Chun smiles. “Of course. We need passage to the far side. Discreet. No questions. There’s a tower there with a launch platform.”

“Yeah, I know it. About forty klicks–A long way over. My boat’s not made for that type of trip, you know.”

“It’ll be the best pay you’ve ever seen.” Chun nods to her partner. The Anvil raises her palm and a hologram appears, indicating a significant bank balance. There are no personal details, but a certification seal indicates its real. Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Enough for you to afford to transition up top,” says Chun.

Jimmy grins. “And why would a guy like me need to move up top? I have so much, already.” He gestures ironically to the room’s contents. “Besides, people above may not appreciate my particular ‘talents’.”

The Anvil smiles, her perfect teeth gleaming in her male jaw. “I can throw in a body graft or full rebirth. Your choice.”

Jimmy sits back, considering. His eyes narrow. “You must really be in the shit.” Jimmy leans forward, running his fingers through his ample beard. “How do I know you won’t shaft me?”

Chun glances at the Anvil, then back. “Of course, we don’t know the first thing about piloting a boat. And we’ll pay fifty percent now and the rest on arrival at the tower. Of course, anything happens on the way, you still have more than enough to retire on.” She eyes the piece sitting next to him on the table. “And I know you can look after yourself.”

Jimmy laughs, a deep throaty bellow that belies his diminutive size. “You have a deal, Ms.Chun. When do you want to leave?”

“Now,” says Chun, grinning. Jimmy guffaws. “Well, I can’t argue with that,” he says. “For that much money I’d personally carry you across the water on Jesus-sanctified miracle legs, if I could.” He leads them both outside, leaps down onto the deck of a twenty-foot skiff with the name Clarissa painted vibrantly on its side. The small front cabin can fit four people; a grimy double outboard engine extends from the aft; an unusually high, four-foot gunwale surrounds the deck.

Chun jumps down and the Anvil follows. Violet stirs briefly in her pod and then drifts back to sleep. The vessel bounces around in the choppy surf, and Chun and the Anvil stumble awkwardly. Jimmy chuckles, steady on his sea legs. He enters the low-ceilinged cabin, places his palm against the console reader and the dual outboard hums to life. Stabiliser pods extend from the hull on both sides and the boat rises gently above the water level, hovering a foot above the surface. The outboard drops lower, its spinning props churning froth and spray. The Clarissa backs out of the sheltered port into the raging sea beyond the walls of the building. Rain cascades in torrents, thumping belligerently on the cabin roof and walls.

Jimmy hefts the wheel, working hard to avoid hitting the tower’s side as the boat is knocked left and right by the waves. Water gushes over the gunwale, then streams out the side channels, leaving the deck awash. The Anvil and Chun strap themselves into two of the four cabin chairs. “Hang on to your hats,” says Jimmy. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

* * *

Alnu has lived dockside all his life, scrounging a living fishing and doing odd jobs. The one good thing about his life is the benefits he picks up as an informant. Alnu activates his palmchip (a newer model, with biochemical enhancers and improved holography, provided by his fine employers) and reports.

“I seen ‘em,” he says, glancing furtively at the Clarissa reversing. “A big guy and an old woman. The big guy looks like he has some sort of capsule on his back—a little kid in it. They’re with Big Jimmy, leaving the block now.”

“Little kid, eh?” replies an electronically scrambled voice. “Good work. We’ll look into it.”

To be continued…

Missed earlier instalments? Click here.

What is ANVIL?

ANVIL is a deliberately unplanned, multi-part short story I’ve created to challenge myself as a writer (I’ve done this before with The Sale – check it out). My intention is to write an episode as often as possible, generally (but not always) ending with a cliff hanger, then work out how to solve the dilemma and continue the story. I have no idea how the story will progress, no idea what it’s about until I get there.

Only you can tell me if it’s successful, or not. I hope you enjoy my continuing experiment.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

 

Driftwood (Beached, part 3). A poem.

Driftwood,
floating on
percolating tides.
Saltwater soaks
fossil branches.
Sand embraces
nooks and crannies.

Driftwood,
meandering,
awaiting
a tactile, tacit end.
Longing for
a final, lasting
beach head.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

 

The Sale. Every Episode!

The Sale was an unplanned, episodic story I wrote for my blog over a six-month period. Following is a complete list of every episode, so you can read in order from the beginning.

Enjoy!

Steve 😊

Part 1 – The Door

Part 2 – The Butler

Part 3 – The Host

Part 4 – The Knife

Part 5 – The Kitchen

Part 6 – The Secret Door

Part 7 – The Bedroom

Part 8 – The Guest

Part 9 – The Ladder

Part 10 – The Basement

Part 11 – The Lab

Part 12 – The Fight

Part 13 – The Maze

Part 14 – The Hall

Part 15 – The Dog

Part 16 – The Climb

Part 17 – The Trapdoor

Part 18 – The Daughter

Part 19 – The Confrontation

Part 20 – The End

PS You may notice a varying tone between episodes; the story changed stylistically as I wrote each instalment, but I think it worked out well, overall.

The Board (Beached, part 2).

Tri-fin cutting foaming swathes
in majestic, molten, crashing waves.
Off-shore wind: the only stakes,
paddling out to meet the break.
To take his certain place in line,
for the weaving surf to redefine.
To forge a newborn legend free,
the board; his truth, his destiny.

Dedicated to my good friend, Andrew.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

The Wild Surf (Beached, part 1). A poem.

The wild surf, like his impetuous heart,
pounds and beats the sandy shore,
like a pugilist with vanity to spare.
Here the relentless, crashing waves
make their mark in odd time signatures,
in fluid and passionate syncopation,
a symphony of wind, water and sand.

The spray in his face is explicative
of this subtle, blithely carefree place,
all this beach has ever been
until time ends and begins again.
The ocean’s magnetic riptide beckons;
a spirited soul returns freely to her fold.
Here his heart forever rests in she.

Dedicated to my good friend, Andrew.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

An Abundance of Katherines. A Book Review.

John Green has rapidly become one of my favourite authors. I’ve now read four* of his young adult (YA) novels, the latest being An Abundance of Katherines (AoK).

AoK is about Colin Singleton, a young prodigy who finds himself at loose ends after being dumped by his 19th girlfriend, all of whom have been called Katherine. His best and only friend, Hassan, a less than devout Muslim who likes nothing more than sitting around the house watching Judge Judy, suggests a road trip to cheer Colin up. An-Abundance-of-KatherinesThey arrive in a Tennessee town called Gutshot, where they meet local nerd turned popular girl Lindsey Lee Wells (with her Football hero boyfriend, Colin, or The Other Colin–TOC, as Hassan refers to him). After meeting Lindsey’s rich mother, who owns the local tampon string-making factory (the only business keeping the town alive), they gain employment conducting interviews with the town’s people for an oral history project. Colin is writing  a mathematical formula to accurately predict how long relationships will last, based on his nineteen dumpings. I won’t spoil any more of this clever and imaginative book. Aside from being a story about finding true love, AoK is also about finding and being your true self.

Green has a knack for writing interesting, humorous characters and snappy dialogue. Colin, with his genius IQ, quirky anagrams and stolid bookish ways, is no exception. Hassan is his slacker comic relief, constantly supporting Colin and putting him down at the same time. Lindsey (who you just know is perfect for Colin, no spoiler there) is smartly confined within herself, wrapped up in her handsome boyfriend and a façade of happiness.

AoK is one of Green’s funniest novels. Liberally sprinkled within are smart and amusing footnotes, which add to the experience. The math behind the relationship formula is by brilliant mathematician Daniel Bliss, and can be found in an appendix at the end of the book (the math is real).

I thoroughly recommend AoK to anyone who likes quirky, romantic novels. It’s Green’s shortest book, so you’ll finish it in no time. And be better for the experience.

* For reviews of some of Green’s other books, click on The Fault in Our Stars, Paper Towns and Turtles All The Way Down

Focus. A poem.

You are my focus.
Without you I am a blur,
a hazy remnant lurking
on the periphery of this
sun-scorched existence.

You are the prism
through which I shine.
You are my multiplicity of light,
an enchanted, technicolour spectrum,
illuminating my darkness,
and showing me the way.

The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and if you like what you’ve been reading then you’ll love it! To find out how to get a copy, click here.
Support starving poets everywhere!

Anvil. Part 5.

The Anvil stares blankly at Granny Chun—not much different from most of her male body’s expressions. “I think you better fill me in. From the beginning.”

Chun grins. “Of course. But we need to get out of here.” She points to the far side of the floor, about a hundred metres across the other side of the market. “I’ll fill you in on the way.” She starts walking, wending between broken stalls, darting into the dust and smoke. The Anvil glances back at Violet in her rear compartment. The little girl has drifted off to sleep with her thumb in her mouth. The Anvil smiles (still somewhat neutrally), and follows Chun into the haze.

“Your name is Angelique Bester,” says Chun as she moves, weapon raised and at the ready, swinging back and forth as she targets the surrounds. “Of course, you are the fourth wife of multi-billionaire Alfred Bester. Or at least, you were.”

The Anvil’s internal scanners have mapped the entire floor. There are no potential hazards or attackers anywhere. She lets Chun carry on her checks—she seems to be enjoying herself. “I assume my husband and I don’t get on.”

Chun’s laugh echoes throughout the level. “Of course, understatement of the year. You were married for six years. Not a bad run, all things considered. Violet is five. She was the best thing to come out of that union.”

The Anvil frowns. “And where do you come in?”

“Of course, I was your nanny.”

“A nanny with covert ops experience?”

“Of course, I had to start somewhere. Nannying is a pretty tough business you know.”

“So, why is my husband after me? And why am I now a man? Or a male armature, I should say.”

“Of course, your split with your husband was unamicable. He wanted Violet, you wanted Violet. He had the money. I suggested you gear me up and I’d hide with Violet in the waveruins, and that you go big with the augmentation. And here we are.”

The Anvil stops. “So, this is just a child custody issue?” she says, disbelievingly. “That doesn’t explain why I chose to become a man. Or why I needed to get the most powerful armature body around. Or the death squad we just fought.”

“Of course, I never said it was just a custody problem,” says Chun. “It’s never just about the obvious stuff.” She faces the Anvil and grins. “Best let your memory sort it all out. Of course, I don’t know everything, you know.”

The Anvil can feel some of the old memories surfacing, like spectres breaching a dense miasma. The constant arguments with Alfred. Violet crying as her mother and father fought. Discussions with Granny Chun in the rooftop garden. Discreet enquiries about rebirthing. There is still considerable fog, though—an impermeable mist that curls and twists and surrounds her whenever she tries to remember.

They reach a stairwell, twisting upwards to the higher living levels and down to the watery depths of the underbuilding. Dim glowglobes hang in the air at every flight. Vagrants in dirty blankets lay sleeping in groups up and down the stairs. The smell is raw and foul with body odour and offal.

“We go down,” says Chun.

* * *

The bubble transport lifts off from the raging waters, foam and surf cascading off its shining, silver hull. Shin-Cho nurses his injured arm and bruised jaw delicately, while rummaging for medical supplies in a nearby wall cabinet. As he reclines, a hologram appears on the console in front of him. A tall man, balding, with dark eyes and a permanent scowl.

“Mr. Bester,” says Shin-Cho. “I suppose you want a report.”

A dark eyebrow rises on the hologram’s gaunt face. “What happened?”

“It appears your wife has hired or bought a synthetic armature to protect your daughter. And as you suspected, the nanny had the little girl secreted away all this time. Your wife was not present, so I suspect she’s still in hiding.” Shin-Cho grimaces as he feels the ugly purple bruise extending up his jaw to his forehead. He pumps a halo-stim into his arm to dull the effects of the nagging concussion. “If I’d known about the armature I could have prepared my team better. It scanned as human until it fired up—we’re talking top-grade bioscreen dampener. Very expensive.” He pauses, dropping the used halo-stim to the floor. “My entire squad was wiped out. Twenty veterans. Killed by a synthetic and an old woman.”

“Maybe I should have invested in someone better.”

Shin-Cho’s brow creases. For a moment his eyes flash darkly. Then he’s all business again. “With the right intel we would have geared up appropriately. My team would still be intact.”

Bester’s hologram smiles. “Well, we can’t have you being ‘inappropriate’, can we? Let’s get you an upgrade.”

To be continued…

Missed earlier instalments? Click here.

What is ANVIL?

ANVIL is a deliberately unplanned, multi-part short story I’ve created to challenge myself as a writer (I’ve done this before with The Sale – check it out). My intention is to write an episode as often as possible, generally (but not always) ending with a cliff hanger, then work out how to solve the dilemma and continue the story. I have no idea how the story will progress, no idea what it’s about until I get there.

Only you can tell me if it’s successful, or not. I hope you enjoy my continuing experiment.

Cheers

Steve 🙂

Black Panther. A Movie Review.

No spoilers here!

Okay, you’ve read the reviews already. More than likely you’ve already seen it. I’m talking director Ryan Coogler’s Black Panther, the latest Marvel Studios’ superhero film that ends up being one of the best movies Marvel has released since Spiderman: Homecoming. I’m not going to talk about the story. I’ll just give some impressions and you can make up your mind based on those.

Black Panther

Black Panther is a bright, colourful, hopeful, heavily African-inspired movie, with a majority African-American cast. It has a great story (although somewhat derivative of The Lion King, which was itself derivative of Kimba the White Lion), great acting, fantastic music full of African drumming, vocals and instruments (yes, this is the first Marvel soundtrack in ten years that doesn’t sound generic) and makes some great political points regarding anti-isolationism (take that, Trump). Yeah, some of the CGI is a bit dodgy at times, but the female characters’ strong roles and gritty resolve, and Black Panther’s/King T’challa’s (Chadwick Boseman) endearing openness and honesty more than make up for it. Even the bad guy, Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan), is sympathetic (and possibly one of the best developed Marvel villains since Michael Keaton’s The Vulture in Spiderman: Homecoming). There’s also some cool James Bond elements in the first act: T’challa’s sister, Shuri (Letitia Wright) is his Q, but has better and funnier lines, and there’s a Bond-style mission.

You may have guessed that I really liked this movie. It’s not without its issues, but has a bit more gravitas than most superhero films.

So, go and see it. Give Disney your money (but please don’t do it more than once—Disney is evil, after all).

Rating: A

 

Saccharine. A poem.

Your bold sweetness leaves
the bitter taste of regret,
a sensate lamentation,
dissonant on my tongue.

This saccharine tinge
leaves me cold and wanting;
a vine that dies from frost
that sears the roots black
and returns them back to dust.

Take your petty rejoinder
and fly from this place,
so that I might have my time
to remonstrate in peace.

My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online distributors. To find out more, click here.

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