The Dawning of a New Glory

Gaurenteed to make Women want YOU!

(Pider Cress '06 has been known to cause women to become delusional, ravenous, dangeorus, rabid, and lesbian. Pider Cress '06 has in rare cases caused hypothermia, spontanious combustion, cirrosis, Anal bleeding and death.)

feudal lords

a million feudal lords
squabbling in border wars
declaring lines & bleeding lives
erecting monasteries & waging ad campaigns
of verdict and law
claiming lands and skirmishing 'til Death
-
i prefer the undisputed monarchy of the sky
with no castle but the clouds
unfettered pinions
a solid spread
over worldy constructs

The Valley

A tribute to childhood.

Deep in the reaches of Eastern Washington rests the Spokane valley. If you approach from the West you come from infinite plains extending out unto the horizon. As you creep closer you can watch as the plains begin to slowly meld into the forests. One by one the pines move farther out into the sage and sun scorched farmland. You look down to check the speedometer and when you glance back up you’re surrounded by marsh lands with shafts of light trickling down through ponderosa boughs. As you crest a small hill the Spokane cityscape rolls out before you. Old granite bell steeples mingle with dazzling structures full of windows beneath you. Just south of here rested a place sheltered from the modern world where time seemingly stood still. As one would drive along the winding gravel road they delved into a forest populated with dense

shadows. If they should chance deeper they could catch glimpses of golden fields that pooled at the feet of hills robed in evergreens. There was a small river at the entrance to this valley, one that snaked its way through the infinite folds of golden barley and green grass rushing together beneath sky that looked like a royal blue paddock with a flock of fairy tale sheep being led across her by the shepherd sun. As dusk and dawn came kissed the sleeping brows of the horizon a mist would rise up from the river and envelop the valley. I can remember so clearly plunging into that ethereal barrier and emerging on the other side into a world that seemed

so magical, a world where dreams and realities wore the same badges and used the same tone. I remember The Valley. There on top of a hill surveying this mystical pocket in the folds of the universe’s robes stood a house. And next to this house, beneath pennants of soft gold and bold forest green, crowned with apple wood smoke, looming up into the tree tops, there was a castle.

The Hierarchy

It is important, when one is the sole source of light and inspiration in a kingdom to have some semblance of government. Simply because at so young an age I found myself thinking that it would be unwise to bear the awful burden of supreme power. Mostly because it would delve into my personal time which I reserved for viewing old black and white episodes of Zorro. Obviously with such a pressing obligation ahead of me I couldn’t constantly be bothered by the trifles of feudal warfare.
It was with this mindset that the Koreth quest was established. It was a rudimentary gauntlet of ridiculously dangerous and humbling activities that we (by we I mean I) demanded that the recruits completed so as to obtain a coinciding rank. Every one started at the status of Peasant I believe. From there they could move up to footman, which basically ensured that it we went to war you would be granted the “honor” of raiding Les’s tree house first… suicide, naturally. Then up to archer, then swordsman (a glorified version of footman), then cavalry (bikes and lances), after which one might delve into the really good ranks.
If one suffered through the rigorous quests of the lesser ranks one might be granted the honor of squire. In retrospect it must have sucked to be a squire, but to this day those who partook of the honor hearken back with nostalgia of the sacred position. Not at being a squire but of being the knight that had the squire assigned to you.
Imagine, if you will, that you have suffered for months under the tyrannical rule of a megalomaniac prince-ling (myself) and finally you have obtained the rank of knight. This being the highest the common man could soar. One day your feudal lord comes to you and hands you one of your friends and leaves you with the statement “Teach him.” Oh sweet mother of all that is merciful… another month of serving lemonade and polishing swords. I’m sure it was awful. At least as a footman you could bleed with honor. This of course didn’t stop us from keeping the rank in the charter. It is only natural that if someone inflicts suffering upon you, you take it out on those beneath you. The squire rank provided the perfect opportunity for order to be restored in our Cro-Magnon fashion.
However, if you paid your dues in the squire-ly fashion you could embark on your quest. Now each of these ranks had its trials. There were sword fighting lessons, bow practices, staff fighting ceremonies, regular staff fighting tournaments (where we would stand around and whack one another with broom poles), and obstacle courses. I wanted my men to be in the peak of their condition for when we did actually go to war. There were entire afternoons devoted to castle sieges. We would break into Gold team and Evergreen team and try to take the castle from the opposing side. This way if ever the unthinkable happened (the castle should be taken) we would be just as skilled at retrieving her as we would be at holding her. However the quest for knighthood was the mother of all trials. Each young man or woman would endure the tests and examinations for months so as to arrive at the day in which they would be granted the honor of questing.
The quest consisted of me spending hours in the garage putting odds and ends together to create a “monster”. All the while I would be putting the storyline and limiting factors together in an intricate web of fantasy and reality. The important part was that I had to have been watching my young prospective for a long time to know their exact weaknesses and fears. That way I could create the single most challenging quest possible. For example if a squire had a particular tendency twords physical resolution of a problem I had to ensure that their weapons (cudgels, bows, and steel pipes bent into sword shapes) would be useless. Sick? Sure, but I look back and would like to convince myself that I was just broadening their approach to life.
The next day they would go out into the forest and seek their title. The quest would generally last the whole of the day, even into the night, and end almost always in victory. We would all return to the castle and there the squire would be granted the honor of knighthood. This entitled them to various honors. The head of their monster would be placed on the wall in the castle, next to it would be placed their color. For with knighthood came a feather died the color of that particular knight. With all of this came also the far more sacred privilege of being able to give orders to anyone below the rank of knight, and a guaranteed chair at the Hall Table.
To this day the castle still bears, among countless scars, a dozen or so feathers posted boldly above the main hall. There they sit as a constant reminder of the days or order and privilege.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006

Weasels and Hellfire

I cocked an eyebrow. So I just pull this stick and it will go? I admit I sounded rather sarcastic, but then again when don’t I? Gabe and Tim looked across at me and glared,
“It’s a lever, and yes.” Tim spat the words at my feet. Gabe cocked an eyebrow in mockery of my own dubious look and stated as matter-of-factly as he could,
“It will hit him, by the third shot for sure… or we’ll all die.” I took the time to raise the other eyebrow this time, glancing down the sheer cliff side I took note of the 150ft drop and of the well rounded figure bobbing along in the field below.
“Run that last bit by me again.” I said. Tim let a deep sigh escape as he sulked up to the massive 20ft tall contraption and began to restate his plan in the monotone voice that would resonate forever as his trademark.
“We - pull - the - lever, which releases the counter balance, the carefully measured 200 lbs. of rock will swing through the legs of the trebuchet and launch the water balloons down into the field at which point it will, because of our accuracy…”
“Or God really…” Gabe interjected.
“… OUR accuracy will guide the water balloons to Foutch, the aforementioned target.” Tim finished his drone with an almost non detectable flourish of pride in that last note.
“Of course,” I continued “and this will all work because we are technical geniuses and our prowess and knowledge in the field of physics is beyond renowned.” My comment was answered with a stick flying past my head at a horribly calculated angle.
“Oh yes, I see that our accuracy is quite admirable as well.” This time the stick didn’t miss.
The trebuchet stood there, loaded and swaying ominously in the wind. Tim stepped up as bravely as he could to the lever, gauged the distance that he felt appropriate to hit Foutch in the field below, who was happily relating tales of the “glory years” in Scouts to Penn (having lost the third round of rock, paper, scissors he was acting as our diversion). Penn was listening to Foutch’s tale and politely pretending to care. Tim turned on his heel and marched back to me. Gabe fell to his knees and clasped his hands.
“Ready Sir.” Tim reported
“Not really.” I replied.
Gabe began to mutter some prayer of an encouraging sort. I looked down to Gabe then my eyes looked back to Tim waiting patiently, then to the Trebuchet, then to Gabe again.
“Tim… you should really have the honor… I mean, you did build it…” I was cut off by Tim’s reassurance that though the lever was consequently placed behind the whole ordeal that my safety was guaranteed, he went on to tell me about the great obligations of my duties as leader of our rabble.
“Obligations I would like to continue to fulfill through out many years to come.” My only answer was the sound of wood straining under the pressure of two hundred pounds of granite and Gabe’s attempt at Latin, something about God being dead.
“Right then…” I nodded at my own statement and reluctantly approached the apparatus. A large closet dowel served as our lever, when pulled some 23 water balloons would issue forth from our invention and come raining down upon Foutch in some great Sodom and Gomorra like scene. Or the large Rubbermaid container filled with granite would flip back and rip off my head… either way quite a party would ensue.
I paused, Tim edged away (as bravely as possible), Gabe prayed. My hand fell upon the lever with the new resolution of how my family would someday speak of me in mind. “How, yes he was such a brave lad, such a shame he wasn’t more headstrong.” I heard the polite laughter of family and friends at the pun, and then a crack. Tim ran, I ran, Gabe prayed, Tim kept running, a weasel of some breed shot out of a neighboring burrow and scampered off into the forest, I stood still to watch the cataclysmic rain of destruction, Gabe I believe was praying.
To this day I can only imagine in my nightmares what Penn and Foutch must have seen as our Trebuchet launched not only it’s payload of water artillery, but also it’s self over the cliff side and down upon them. Luckily the sound that it made as it tore itself apart was enough to alert them, and any one within 5 miles I’m sure. Down it came, this swirling mass of timber, latex, and stone gliding thorough the sky with such grace, as though it were a flock of swans. Swans that spread their wings and took flight, soaring high up into the air and then diving in wild patterns as a neighboring cyclone caught them and tore their wings off.
Thus did our contraption hurl herself down, cascading into the field below, sending great geysers issuing up from the river beneath our feet, as stone and two-by-fours came pouring down in a beautiful display of man’s engineering capabilities. Gabe was still praying.
So it came to be that I was banned forever from the quiet country home of Mr. and Mrs. Foutch. While they would never comment as to why little Foutch could never entertain guests for the rest of his natural born life, there were always the rumors.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006

Of Mice and Boys

Penn sat hunched on the Eastern catwalk. His lithe frame was bent double as he perched on the stone ledge like a falcon scanning the skyline for prey.
“What’s the verdict?” I leaned against the doorframe trying to look imposing.
“Twelve, maybe fourteen.” He spat over the edge in a rough fashion. I nodded and walked down the spiral stair case to where Gabe, Tim, and Shane were all waiting with long broom sticks with frog trident prongs fastened dangerously to the ends. Encouraging looks were passed from one knight to the other and then Penn and I, with spears in hand, led the men out side into the harsh glare of the sun. I stepped out to the head of our party and stood before them with an air of authority.
“I don’t want to lose any body today; we go out there and get back. Once we find one nail it fast and nail it hard. Bring it down in the first thrust. I’m not ready to have to explain to anybody’s parents why one of you is frothing at the mouth. Gabe spoke up,
“What if I have amebic dysentery?” I stared at the ground and shook my head. The knights all adopted mournful looks as we remembered our fallen brother who wasn’t here with us today.
“Guardia? That doesn’t involve frothing.” I informed Gabe. “Not at the mouth anyways…” I added just in time before Gabe could give some other remark.
Penn shot me a look, I nodded, and he ran off ahead to scout for our prey in the woods.
“Chris?” Gabe looked over at me. I could feel it coming
“Yes Gabe…”
“Why don’t we burn witches like they used to in these days?”
“Because Gabe,” I stared to tell the tale again using my almost sing song voice “The burn season ended a week ago.”
Gabe was blank for a second, and then his face lit up.
“Ohhh…”
I nodded and we made to move for the woods.
Spears at the ready we plunged into the small forest to the East of the castle. We walked for a while and then arrived at a small clearing. Penn ran up from out of the shadows and whispered to me,
“There’s a whole nest up ahead just under that old log.” Signals flashed from my second in command and I simultaneously. We stopped. Tim gave Shane a condescending look which Shane returned with a shrug. Gabe was trying to light something on fire.
“Gabe!” Penn exercised his authority as second and command and made a bold choice, that would have made Smokey proud, and chastised Gabe. He looked around and slipped the lighter into his pocket. Tim looked bored.
“Maybe we should try that again.” He pointed out our obvious error of acting in tandem. I let Penn make his signals solo this time and we spread out, enclosing the log in a circle of spears all encroaching slowly.
Penn moved first and kicked the log aside. Well he tried, it really just made a low thud sound and a green branch flew back and exacted nature’s revenge. Penn crumpled to the ground clutching his groin.
“Man down, man down…” Shane cried just as our prey scampered forth. Three mice ran out from beneath the log. Gabe screamed like a little girl and ran away the opposite direction spewing warnings of rabies. Shane turned and looked the other direction. Penn moaned. Tim and I shot after the mice, spears in hand. They had about twenty feet before they would be safe in the grass. We had to move fast. Tim launched a spear and it struck the ground ahead of one of the mice which turned and headed back twords us. Gabe’s warning sunk in as Tim screamed too. He bolted leaving me alone on the hunting ground. I leveled my spear and took flight after the mouse, abandoning the other two to the sanctuary of the tall grass. Shane was looking for Tim. Gabe was up in a tree trying to light a patch of sap. Penn was turning white.
I saw my whiley little target dodge into a bush and I took aim. He dove. I hesitated. The little bastard stopped and looked at me. I swear he just looked at me. My eyes filled with sudo-tears and I dropped my spear. To this day I swear that mouse nodded at me and then scampered into the brush.
I turned and walked away from my spear. Wiping my eyes I walked back to the log and tried to help Penn up. He however had already found his feet and was running with his jacket outstretched twords Shane and Tim. Both had their own jackets off and were working in a frenzy to stomp out a patch of brush just beneath the tree Gabe had sought refuge in. In the background Gabe stood by and smiled as the fire spread.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006

Lye-ing in Wait

Penn and I tried to steady our breathing. We mounted the last step and fastened the trap door of our fortress. We were in the attic of a small old barn that Sir Tim’s family was kind enough to lend to the cause. As was our custom we immediately fell to warfare. We tried other pursuits; don’t get me wrong, we really did. Basket weaving just fell through though and the guys never did take to Balinese dancing the way I had hoped. So we fell back to what we did well.
At the moment Shane, Gabe, Tim, and Foutch were outside laying siege to the small barn that had just moments before rested in the peace and serenity of the Valley. There was silence.
“Do you think it is safe?” Penn questioned as he stuck his head around a makeshift wall and looked out the hay loft at the field before us. Several bricks moving at high velocity promptly answered his question. He dove backwards and barreled against me.
“I guess not.” He panted. We quickly formulated a plan and put it into action. We hoarded a pile of rocks and signaled his preparation for action. I swung open the small door on the side of the barn and prepared to drop to the ground. We sprung. Penn began his rain of granite and basalt as I rolled to the ground. Foutch fell first and began to explain why this was unjust. No one noticed, except Penn who made a point of repeating his aim. On my descent I caught a glimpse of Tim crawling around the interior of the barn. He was no doubt making his way twords the second level where he could make an assault on our trapdoor. I grabbed for the 2x2 at my side that had served at a sword, only to find it missing. I stooped to locate it just as several rocks came to greet me.
“If you hold still it will be easier.” Gabe shouted. Penn answered for me with a marble sized piece of basalt to Gabe’s head. Gabe issued a series of expletives to make any sailor proud.
I rounded the corner and found the doorway. In front of me was Tim, slowly creeping along. I grabbed a local 2x2 and promptly made to insert it in the closest orifice. Tim acknowledged my accuracy with a sharp cry. Before he had time to respond with force I was half way up the wall and making for the window to the attic. Penn was still delivering our payload with passion. That’s when it happened.
I saw the bottle fly through the front of the barn as if time had stopped. A faint glimmer of tin foil shone from behind the dull green of 16oz.
7-UP bottle. Then there was silence. Small smoking balls of tin foil shot outwards like snarling lions in every direction. Tim was mimicking Gabe’s mastery of the nautical tongue as small projectiles launched in every direction. When they landed on solid ground they continued to issue smoke.
I am still uncertain where Shane or Gabe learned (though it never really surprised me) that the combination of lye and tin foil when mixed in water and placed under pressure creates an explosion of acidic projectiles that eat through wood, earth, flesh… you know. All I know is that my next vivid memory was Penn launching himself from the hay loft and chasing Gabe into the distance with a piece of pipe and a series of remarks about his mother and her pedigree.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006

Sweet Ellen

-03:02 November 7th- Curled against a tree in the forest.

Ellen, I think, who is Ellen? Is this body that pulls its self up and awake Ellen? There is a pain in my head, a tingling that drills into my skull boring deeper with each new movement. The room is dark. My face is dark. There is a whiskey blotch and a heavy hand laid across my face. Alarm clock, you let me down. My night watch guard you should have roused me. You traitor who conspires against me, blushing 12:00 again and again as you stare back at me. I smell his scotch, it’s inside me now. His scent, I feel it under my flesh like maggots crawling through spoiled flesh. I pray to god that’s all that’s in me. His scent is the last legacy. Nothing else crawls and pulses upstream towards secret places, sanctuaries left undiscovered. Ellen should focus. Focus Ellen I think.
My feet hit the floor boards and they scream out to tell of my escape. I put on clothes; abstract articles pieced together and move towards the door. The door snarls at my approach and bites with rusted hinges at my hand. He’s there, in the dark, I see him, see his eyes. Like pools of mist catching grey glints and rejecting them back towards me. A sound of bones breaking, brittle ancient bones, smashing under his weight as he leaps at me, and resetting as the pressure lessens. Rotted wings dropping flesh reach out spewing black feathers at me feet. Scream, come to me, come up from me, lash out. Nothing. My mouth opens and I gag. Vomiting on the floor I look down and his maggots swarm in my bile winking up at me with child faces, hundreds of tiny reflections of my nose and lips building a foundation for his hollow eyes. The tips of the wings begin to enclose me and I hurl myself against the breathing door. It splinters and I drop to the city.
Ellen, marshal your thoughts. I say. Rally your cortex army; call the handsome vanguard of synapses to the line. Fire at will, fire at will! I say. The sky shatters again in a snow globe torrent of glass swirling me up and setting me down in my shell. I pull on an Ellen shaped hoodie and slip into soiled Ellen scented underwear, rich in fertile fields on my blood. Who is this body I wear like a slip?
I look up and there is the city. My city. His city. The streets are empty. Tall buildings with weeping cherubs and mocking gargoyles stare up at a paper sky. I hear the snapping of bones and labored breathing rolls out from a near by alley.

-06:04- Dolby, Mrs. McGrath’s Labrador finds something off the trail.

Focus. Focus. Focus. I click my heels.
The Ellen, my Ellen, settles on me. There is a city. I pull myself up and look around. It’s Seattle. There’s the waterfront. In front of me extends the sound and I am in Pike’s place. The market is empty, only me. Papers scuffle across the street and no hearts beat. I walk past the fish market and the fish watch me. Their eyes lock on me and follow me as I walk past them and down the sidewalk. A drilling sensation hits me again, my head feels hot and there is a pain in my skull but I remain clothed in my skin this time. The grimy tiles slicked with translucent scales and disregarded flower petals remain firm beneath my pink Converse. I look down to make sure I’m still planted on the ground and I see blood running down my thigh and past the Converse star. The river pulses down my leg and I panic. I feel the monk fish watching me. He’s watching me bleed and curving his two thousand needle teeth upward to grin after me. There is no one else. “Hello? Is there any one there? Hello?” I shout. Not even my echo responds.
My heart pulses and a fleeting sound percolates up from some blocks away. A crackling, old joints throbbing in deliberate movement, comes stalking down the street after me. This isn’t right. This is hollow.
The city is empty. I walk past a radio left in a booth bejeweled in leather mittens and two dollar rings. The radio makes a huffing sound, the sound of a dog hyperventilating. It breathes harder, and then slower. Harder then slower. In and out, in and out, “He he he he he he he he ha ha ha ha he he he he ha ha ha he he he ha ha.” The puffing speeds up and speeds up and becomes a scratching like a record left on too long. I feel him behind me, I hear the crackling of decaying wings unfolding. Images of ravens lying dead on the road swarm my vision and I see his pinions engulf me. I run. Never looking back. Past Starbucks, as I run I see screaming faces etched into the window, the mermaid’s face is sagging like melted wax. The coffee smells burnt inside. Onwards I run. Past the Turkish delight, past the Cutlery shop and the rattling shapes that lurk behind the massive Swiss Army Knife pulsing in the window. My running feels slow, like running underwater, I can’t get away I fall and my eyes go dark.

-06:38- An ambulance screeches through the streets of Seattle. An investigation begins.

When I open them I’m in a forest. The trees are dark, there is moss glistening in the moon light. Frost clutches the bark in a firm grasp and beams of pale light pour down from a brutally crisp sky. Some make it to the ground, other get plucked from the sky, mid-flight, by gnarled fingers enclosed in evergreen rings. Cedar is rich on the thin air, and my labored breathing tries to drink it in. I shake, uncontrollably. My scent is the only warmth I feel here, my rich and fertile scent pouring out from inside me. Boorishly pressing the crisp night air away from me and pooling at my feet. My hips ache. My hair is knotted and tingles towards the back. My face burns and I feel my blood stalling in its flow beneath my left eye. It hardens where he struck me. It pours where he tapped me, unceremoniously, poured me out to be gorged upon, like a keg full of cheap nectar. In front of me I see his eyes. Smell the rotting flesh. A shadow lurches. The sound of bones snapping rushes through the forest, the form straightens up on haunches and bones reset and form again. Eyes, glinting orbs denying light, reflectors repelling the moon level on my face and I am swallowed by my fear.
He, moves towards me, jutting out at angles all a Kimble as his internal structure splinters and reassembles with each move. Ellen please, I plead. Ellen please, I try to move but don’t respond. He spreads forth withering wings and engulfs me, the piece meal body trying to hold together as it advances, the scotch rolling on me, white capping and breaking on my face, assaulting my nose. He’s there, he’s inside me again. I bleed.
“No please, please, no more God?” I say. I shudder with my tears. My flesh tears.
Split away. I pull away, claw away, my body rips and I leave scored self on his long crows hands. I hurl myself backwards and am alone again. Where? Caporal street? I’m alone. I keep pushing open doors, an old motel. It’s hard to focus. Laboring to remember what happened? The searing pain in my head increases. I feel it bore into my skull and eat away my memories. I’m in Seattle. The streets are empty. Where are all the people? Windows are filled with darkness, no light, no movement, no bodies. I’m all that moves.
I wander the streets, calling out.

-10:21- Mrs. Janice Fairweather unable to contact her husband goes to the hospital alone.

I open my eyes. I’m in bed. Not my bed, just a bed. A tall four post cast iron bed. Sterile sunlight filters through cumulous gauze and leeches through the window. A rocking sound comes from the corner. There is a smell of nursing home, of brittle leaves, of scotch. I ask my hips to respond to me. They don’t listen. I tilt my head up and there in the middle of the creaking is an old woman wrapped in a thinning shall. She rocks slowly and nods her face muttering to herself. When her mouth moves the bags of skin that sag from her cheek bones billow. She has no eyes. Open sockets gape at me.
“Beep” she says.
“Who are you?” I say.
“Beep” she says.
“Please, what’s happening to me? I can’t hold on to anything.” I say. My hips still won’t hear me begging them to move. My toes won’t wave back at me when I ask them to. I’m so confused, I need to focus. Ellen. Please listen, Ellen please pull yourself to one piece again.
“With any luck she’ll be, beep, in a few months. There’s no certainty of, beep,” says the old woman. She rocks faster. I look down at my legs and I see my skin bubbling. I see the maggots beneath the pink, I see them eating down towards the bone defecating trails of scotch in my veins. The iron posts of the bed curl in towards me and pin my feet. I hear the bones breaking, smell his breath.
“Fairweather all together, black feather, whether or not she’s feeling better,” chuckles the old woman in a sign song tone. The bed coils a post down from behind my head and slithers down my throat. I struggle, I thrash, the bed post grows and coils and pulses downward, pushing my tongue aside and probing, fondling my insides with its cast iron sides. The old woman rocks faster.

-13:14 November 7th - Mr. Edward Fairweather puts the bottle down and sees several missed massages on his phone. He goes to the hospital to see his daughter.

He enters. Carrion and liquor on his breath, his putrefying wings wrapped around him and shifting shadow form with listless eyes stumble towards her on breaking legs, resetting and popping as he lurches at me. I can’t scream, I choke on the post in my throat. I cry, and struggle, but am held. I thrash, but only the maggots rove freely through me, descending my valleys, burrowing towards my sacred groves, wiggling and chewing. He descends upon me and I close my eyes. I bleed.
-19:02 November 19th- Ellen Fairweather remains in a coma. A lab test returns. An official knock sounds on the Fairweather’s front door.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006

The Apple Prince

What with the youth scammpering hither and yon on the Golf Cart, polos flailing in the wind, and the crisp budding fruit of paradise condensing on every branch, I feel the need to thank the harvest season. I think it is time to honor reprodcution.
Glory be people! Here's to the pistol and the stamen. While we, as a culture, spend so much time trying to disect why unrequitted lovers only hear what they want, (i.e. "I don't like you. I can't imagine ever wanting to date you because you are an emotionally unsound and grating person. Not now, not ever, you offend the very fabric of my soul." which translates to "...not today goreous, I'm too hot for you this moment to form the word yes like I want to...") or gripping about failied attempts to fly and scorned hearts, lets face it... the fruits of labor are well worth it. (Right? I myself have never been in labor but I've seen it. Oh god have I seen it...)
This is my tribute to passion, to polenation, to fruit hanging full bodied from the branch!

Let us drink a warm toast to that sweet friend Autum, who's auburn hair frames Her swollen belly, and who's fragrant pumpkin spice reminds us of that now is the time to rejoice in what we've accomplished. The great fanfare and exulltation before that hard bitten neighbor Winter bangs on the wall and tells us to keep it down. After toiling in the soil and the sun, laboring in the dry heat of Summer we can now, in good conscious, spice the wine, heat the mead, pour the vodka, and give thanks to the great miracle of existence.

So my friends, pluck the fruit of the vine, savor the rich and vibrant flavors that ride full force on crisp winds, pull fragrant lovers in close and give a ruckous thanks to the bees, to the birds, to the stout fruti bearing trees of the sweet sugared empire, raise your glass of applejack to the muses of propogation.

Glory.

Sheered... Like Samson.

A tribute to the Journey

For the Good Doctor and the Admiral

for 21 years of dedicated service.

And we called him Santiago
By Captain Christopher M. Staudinger

© All Rights Reserved

Mahi-mahi bond for life. Once bonded, they will spend the rest of their five to six years swimming side by side through the yawing abyss of the tropical seas. At first you think that the sea must be teaming with life, near brimming over. That really isn't the case. Ninety-seven percent of all life in the ocean is found within two-hundred nautical miles of the shore. One percent are creatures that lurk deep in darkest parts of our mind and seas. The remaining two percent fight for existence in the barren waste-land that scarcely supports life. Mahi take this chance. With its partner by its side, Mahi roam the heavy heaving desert of sea reaching speeds of 50 knots (57.5 miles per hour to the lubber). They’re gorgeous, flaming rockets of crimson and gold with electric green currents chasing along their sides.
The simple fact remains that you’re more likely to catch a glimpse of the Pope’s private yacht than a Mahi. We went three months without sight of land or vessel, nothing but the endless drone of horizon spattered by the brooding temperament of the skies. For three and a half months, our world was bound by the wooden planks and steel hull of the SSV Toronto Star, 134.5 feet in overall length, 250 tons, 14 feet of draft, 2 masts, 11 sails, 34 souls. We were assigned a shoebox-shaped coffin, 6 feet, 3 inches in length,to stow our gear and stash our bodies when not on watch. For three and a half months, we clutched our duffels and sea bags against our sun-ravaged skin like spouses or once ago lovers. For three and a half months, we hid our secrets and flaws, hoping they wouldn’t spill out of our bunks when we heeled over.
We were scientists. We were students. We had projects to be developed and theories to be tested and egos to be soothed. We had stood on shore a season prior in the conference hall and explained how we would better the scientific community through our arduous endeavors across the Pacific. We extrapolated, and pontificated, and inflated just as much. We came from New England upper crust, and donated to Green Peace every year. We were known by name in the labs back home and were expected to bear doctorial titles within the decade. We were the hope of the future. And then there was Danny. Danny DeMio.
He stood in front of us wielding a yard-stick like a broadsword. He jabbed at a picture of a fish drawn on the chalk board, and then traced the bold bubble letters: SAVING THE YELLOW-FIN TUNA.
“So, I intend to prove that there are fish in the ocean.”
We paused.
“I mean, I’m going to fish for yellow-fin tuna, along our cruise track, and
then I’ll plot where I find them and at what times of day and stuff. When I’m done, I’ll be able to know what the popular areas are for the fish -- showing that there are fish in the ocean still.”
Georgia, who had strangely sharp and dazzling teeth, raised her hand.
“So… what are you going to be accomplishing for the scientific community?”
Danny let an absent-minded hand fall below his waist and stroked himself.
“Once we know where the fish are, we can let commercial fishermen know, and that way they will be able to stop over-fishing.”
We paused again, as if waiting for some hidden punch line. It never came.
Veronica, who was top of her class in cephalopod biology and reproductive technique, chimed in,“You’re going to save the fish by killing them?”
We all chuckled at her jab.
“No, I’m going to, you know, sample them.”
“On a plate?” said Justin, who loved to surf.
Danny started to look angry. He charged at each question and missed each one by a fraction of an inch. Most of us took a stab at him; the rest cheered us on. Then came Greg, whose large nose was frequently dabbed with crumpled Kleenex produced from some hidden pocket.. He came striding into the conversation like the matador toying with the broken bull, smiling at the ladies.
“So you’re going to fish for three and a half months?” he asked, his voice like burned sugar.
“Yeah.” responded Danny.
Greg side-stepped the first charge.
“And then you’ll spend your down time taking advanced readings of the biological construct of the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone?” He fluttered his cape.
“Well, no.”
The sword came out.
“I guess I just don’t understand the purpose of your project.”
“To stop over-fishing in the ocean.”
“Are you going to stick a Budweiser on the hook and pull the fishermen out of the water?”
We all held our breath.
“Or are you going to stop the rape of our sea by pulling the fish out and relocating them to the projects?”
The room erupted.


We crept across the Pacific at an agonizingly slow four knots. The sun lashed our backs and broiled the deck. We prayed for a night watch; any of the four hour shifts that were served between 1900 and 0600 gave you a chance to balm your burns before returning to one of the brutal six-hour day watches.
Everyday when not on watch we would sacrifice ourselves on the altar of science. Those of us who were interested in probing the depths on the sea would be present four times a day to lower the 250-pound Conductivity Temperature Depth scanner and her twelve sample bottles. We would heave-to, winch the carousel out, and drop the CTD down 4000 meters. Others would be counting copepods under the microscope or probing spoonfuls of sea snot with a steel toothpick and looking up every third organism in the NOAA manual to ensure we had identified it correctly. Others still were preserving squid gonads in formalin every thirty minutes.
The lab was below deck, tucked alongside the churning generators and oil lines like the boiling stomach of the ship. Constantly heaving and rocking, and reeking of chemicals and squid, the lab was relentlessly barraged by the four-second throb of the depth scanner that constantly checked in with the carbon on the ocean floor.

Danny remained on deck. When he ventured to the lab, it was to pick up a bucket of chum for his hooks. Greg, who was seasick for the first week, once vomited in the bucket of chum before handing it to Danny. He dabbed his behemoth nose with a rag as he handed it over. For two months, Danny lounged on deck watching his line. Nothing came.
“Of course he’s not going to catch anything,” Veronica said one day when the heat was heavier than usual. “There are no fish this far out. He’s just fucking off up there.”
“He’s getting really good at baiting a hook.” said Thomas, who didn’t say much.
“Yeah, he’s a real master baiter,” said Greg, casting invisible dice in the air next to him.
We all paused from our quest to better humanity to laugh.
“You hear the Cap’n calls him Santiago?” he said through his nose.
“Santiago? If Hemmingway knew, he’d kill himself again,” spat Georgia.
At that moment, Danny pushed the hatch open and came in with a bullish look on his face. When he caught sight of Greg, he puffed up.
“Hey, I need more chum.”
Greg spat on the sole and then handed Danny the scalpel he was using to dissect one of Veronica’s squid.
“Here, I suggest using your temporal lobe, it’s for higher functions.”
“What?”
“Your temporal lobe. For chum. I figure you should use it at some point in your life.”
Danny held his ground without letting his gaze falter from Greg.
“Still nothing, Santiago?” asked Justin, who hadn’t stopped talking about surfing since we cast off.
“If you can tell me what book that came from, Santiago, I’ll give you this squid testical.” Greg produced a small marble from the longest of the squid’s tentacles. “Think of it like a worry stone, so that you don’t have to keep touching yours.”
Danny recoiled his hand from its native position on his groin. He shifted from foot to foot and then spun to leave.

We herded him around the ship. There’s nowhere to hide on a ship and the 134.5 feet of his paddock began to cinch around his neck. We would mock falling on swells too small to note and cow him into bulkheads as we caught ourselves, or grumble “Santiago” in greeting as we passed. The golden key to his freedom swam hundreds of knots away, disinterested in his single piece of chum dangling behind the Toronto Star.
And then it happened: under the most oppressive of days, when the air refused to whisper the faintest relief, Danny’s pole dipped and broke. He was there to grab it as the line raced deeper into the dismal depths. The bells sang out and the pulse of his excitement spread like a drug through the veins of the ship. We all rushed to the quarterdeck. With the pole broken, Danny had pulled the coil of line from its spool and was holding on with his hands. As we watched his shoulders ripple under the strain of the fight, his palms wept crimson tears onto the parched planks of the quarterdeck. The sea heaved with discomfort beneath us and Danny had to grab at the rail to prevent following his prey to the depths.
The third mate (who was arrogant and boyish) leapt to Danny’s side and helped him coil the line. They thrashed and tugged, cursing heathen prayers to physics that the line would hold. Danny was heaving still, as he had been from the start, when at last we saw it. Beneath the water shot a bolt of color like a rocket. First it bolted away from the hull at what must have been 40 knots, and then down again towards the darkness. We watched the line sigh and sing under the force. Danny raged vehemently and planted himself with each new attack. The line suddenly gave the most imperceivable of movements and seemed to slack. Danny dug in. The fish soared on deck.
Forty pounds of fury thrashed and spurred. The third mate straddled the four feet of gold and crimson that mauled mauled the planks with color and rage. From some secret spot, Danny produced his deck knife and plunged it into the Mahi’s skull. Its flanks blazed to life with wildfire and sunsets. Its eyes sought wildly for its attacker. The knife bored deeper; squelching sounds assaulted us with each twist. The Mahi’s open mouth let loose silent gaping screams as she flared even brighter. There was a sickening twist and a pop. The Mahi went limp and the color in her flanks faded, starting at the tail and bleeding upward towards its own blank stare, and finally leaching out at Danny’s knees. We saw the color pour out with the blood that ran into the hawseholes and back into the sea. The fish that remained behind was a slate grey and still as stone.
The only sound was Danny and the third mate slapping one another and laughing. Slowly, we tore ourselves from the scene and returned to our duties.
Justin was the first to notice the fish that bumped into the side of the ship. He was watching Danny and the third mate cleaning the Mahi and chucking the innards back to the sea when he caught sight of the second Mahi. From the slope of the forehead, this one was clearly recognized as male, and he trailed along side the ship, rising to the surface and casting searching glances up, but finding only chum and the silence of an alien world.
For four days, the dead fish’s mate slowly swam by the side of the SSV Toronto Star, waiting for something to drop back from the sides of the ship and return. Day and night he kept his vigil, sometimes patrolling the starboard side, other times trolling along the port side. Veronica had trouble sleeping at night because she could hear it bumping against the hull along her bunk. By the fourth day, its dazzling crimson had begun to fade. On the fifth it took the hook Danny single-mindedly dropped in front of it. No one watched as he bled the color dry.









© Capt C Staudinger 2006

28 Hours

1 lilting voice
10 vodka shots
1 by 1
15 minutes?
4
1 perfcet conversaasion
2
3 hours of solitary respite
(and i 8 nothing before 1/5 poison)
20 tributes to a porcelain god
28 hours of pennace
40 lessons learned
1 night before
21

missing pieces ~

i leave a paragraph for most
a page at times
i spent a chapter in India
a volume for ships and seas
i knew a girl who claimed a novel for her own
some jotted notes in Arabic and a dictionary of Spanish
for you:
i left a printing press
i stalled my publication of adventure classics and romance novelettes
swathed a forest clean and bled my ink wells dry
awaiting a daily publication for my illiterate heart
a trilogy, a book, a pamphlet
a god damn note saying why

i got an epitaph
a stone carving goodbye

-caustic-

So I light cards of fire

make them disappear

reappear

It's a poetry really.

Each card having a distinct meaning and flavor

placed and handed out in the right order

making a pattern

that only I (i think) am watching

The Evolution of Chris

Coronation of the Forest Lord

And through the swirling transient nodes of perpendicularly parallel paradoxical articulated venerable comments based primarily within the illicet and intangiably emaciated (of verable vengence, verdict, vigilance, victory, vagrance, villany, and voice) nodes of cerebral tempests cascading lucidly upon shirking shadows of probable location I assume in gaurded stance and prose... though heavily laden with bombasted jibing prose... a chance to gaze into verbal metaphorical prominent venerated projected portent text a certain clarity not often expected nor seen.

Falcon-esc

falcon-esc
i'm bone hollow, fierce down, and weightless grace
so that i can better saddle the
full bodied tradewinds and go
where plump warmth won't allow
what a heavy thing comfort is
soft and gratuitous around the gut;
such merry men posses great gravity
but i'd miss my ferrel wandering
and the complete, barren freedom
of the flight.

On the Eastern seaboard of India there lies the industrial rural village of Mamallampuram. I was trekking down the cast of India not long ago when I encountered a brutally hot stretch of sand and shrub land. The only oasis was a hump of granite that rose from the coast and took stance against the endless stretch of sand. I made it past the emaciated bovine guards that stood munching cud on the edge of town and entered a historical labyrinth of limestone, marble, and stone dust. For the last 1200 years Mamallampuram has been a stone carving village. Through out the entirety of its existence Mamallampuram has been fought over by the various Hindu and Buddhist rulers of India. As each new ruler would come to power they would take the inhabitants of Mamallampuram and put them to work to construct great superstructures and testaments to their respective faiths.
Mamallampuram is a tiny village of shacks and mud homes that provide a palisade for the ghost empire inside. At the inner core of the village there lies a massive city hewn from slabs of granite that could swallow city blocks. Everywhere that one of these rocks loomed up from the earth the citizens of Mamallampuram carved temples and buildings straight from the side of the stone and erected monuments to their industry from the very bellies of the behemoths they dwelled with. Stone moves in the blood of the people here. Each man of this town is a stone worker and has been since birth. His father was a stone worker and his father before and so on for the last millennium. With century after century of each dawn bringing a new day to learn each nuance of the stone they work with and each craft to master it the men of Mamallampuram have become a class apart in realm of stone craft. For hundreds of years they have been sought after by all of India’s populace to craft for them works to challenge time itself. For they do more than just mould stone with precision and speed, the denizens of Mamallampuram breathe life into each piece and sculpt it with the skill of generations.
It was wandering through the vacant corridors of this timeless city that I met Rajaram, a young student who bears the burden of being the newest member of an elite stone crafting group that has prospered in this area since the first kings of India requested the talent of these men for Temples to worship in. I was broke and in condition to march once more through the daunting stretch of sand that coiled around Mamallampuram. He gave me a place to stay and I had the honor of eating with his family; though they had little to spare.
The vast majority of Mamallampuram’s income is from tourism these days what with a recent decline in the Indian governments need for stone monuments. However the recent Tsunami has caused a drastic decline in visitors to their region. Times being hard Rajaram and his family all bore their hardships with great pride and a deep love for the work they do.


Now however we have a chance to help. If you and yours have any desire for any stone craft let me know. If you find your life lacking a perfect gift, pendant, statue, piece of culture or merely an act of philanthropy call me at
509.521.9379
and place an order. No matter what you are looking for describe it in full detail and I will see that Rajaram is informed. The port authority of Madras and I are old friends and I’ve secured the safest shipping for the least amount of money. For a fraction of what it should cost for hand crafted art from the other side of the world you can seize this chance to not only help a family but provide yourself with incredible personalized heirlooms that will linger into the future generations.

Folowing the Zen Trail

This is a letter of apology.

I may never return from Japan. I would love to have written sooner but each key on the key board has at least 7 different characters it can produce and I couldn’t find the English ones for a good long while.

For the last four days I have been trekking through the mist burdened mountains of this sublime country, fasting and reflecting at the Zen monuments that nestle in the evergreen folds of Japan’s empire. After pacing the bright action packed streets for a day or so I realized that I would never be able to afford accommodations, what with a youth hostel running at $50.00 a night. So I packed up my satchel and made for the paths of enlightenment seldom trod in the winter months. Winter has been a forgotten delight, and one that I now gorge myself upon. The still courtyards of ancient Samurai temples are filled with freshly blooming cheery blossoms and bejeweled with snow lightly falling from the marbled sky.

If I don’t return, look for me trekking the lost trails of a foreign empire chasing the shadows of my soul.

The Machine That Is

China.

I’ve been caught up in the grinding cogs of a gargantuan factory. I hear only sounds, but no words. I met more people in secluded, sealed Myanmar who spoke English than here. China grinds and galumphs with churning, burning, spewing sounds crashing through the gridded cityscapes. There is no setting between off and max with voices, no inflection, only screaming, screeching, tearing words that thunder across you with rhythmic stride. Trains, and smog, and snow pulling, sinking, crushing on the same beat as the cars that push and pulse down the street.
There are no names, only ID tags with bold numbers pinned to the chest of every employee. As if each person were but a piece installed into the great red beast; labeled teeth gnashing in a yawing iron maw. Every where there are sparks faltering in the bitter cold as steel grates on stone.

A woman came up to me selling maps on the street. Fear flooded her eyes and she dropped the maps and spun off from me as a pod of men (all alike in height and breadth) strode past with equal stride and grabbed her. They didn’t struggle or hassle her, they didn’t even break pace, they just kept moving as they latched on and propelled her down the shifting corridor. People every where churned on unaware. They tugged her, pulled her, plied her onwards, down a cluttered shaft of an ally and beat her. The wall of figures shifted and the scene was swallowed.

I swirl alone on the crimson streets seeking some glimmer of warmth. I find scorpions on sticks freshly roasted; some brittle and poisoned heat to gnash between my chaffing lips. Wandering North I find a wall that never stopped anyone… except tourists. It’s pretty great, but also frigid, frigid and mechanical.

At every check point there is a scanner that reads your sore temperature. They are scanning feverishly for those with any thermal anomalies. The dark blue uniforms with silver number plates are seeking dieses, and stopping in their route those who are burning too bright.

Everywhere there is movement. Everywhere there is pulsing, throbbing, grinding, thumping, stuttering, shaking, pounding, silence.

China.