Featherings

It was a silly game. People stood in a circle holding hands. The Head Master let a few feathers drop and the group had to blow on the feathers so they would not fall on the ground.

The girl had drunk the light brew called Angel Wings all day and felt her brain was a fuzzy mohair ball. In front of her stood a black-haired man. She wished that the feathers would never fall on the floor, so he could stand there for ever, for he was a friendly type and he seemed to genuinely like her. She woke hope. He was gone.

***+++***


A long time ago, she went to Bellagio. The place was grand, and quite empty most of the times. The staff there were nice. She still had a picture of the plume gown she had bought there. Very chic. Aww, the plumes. But then, that was before the Reaver attack on a somewhat quiet Saturday night at Blackburne. Long time ago.

***++++***


Miya's 102 year old aunt, Janice Wingtips, once told Gark: " You know, Garkuyan...Angels have a copyright on wings. You just can't "do wings", like one "does" chocolate cake or snowboarding.

Well, Mrs Wingtips, I'm doing wings. Time to feel the wind in my hair and taste the sweet smell of Liberty.

Kin

Gark had not a lot of memories of her family. Sometimes, after too much of Ali's rhums at Firefly's bar she had faint reminescence of people, who seemed to correspond to what people call "kin". The name Luc, a girl called Jeanne d'Arc... fleeting images floating in the pale mist of Firefly's bar.

Sometimes, also, she would dream of people laughing, the sound of an accordeon, crops in the fields, green valleys, and then people fleeing, herself shivering in the dark, hidden in the little hut she had built on the hill. Suddenly she had woken up on A-Corp sim, at the foot of a BDSM Castle, wondering if she had died and was now what the Earth-that-was-once called Hell.

The only clue of about her kin was of her people's name: Kasparians. The little bracelet she had worn ever since she woke up on A-Corp, with the word Kas scratched on it had been the key to solving at least that part of the puzzle. Once while visiting a saloon on Occilan moon, she had been told by the bartender there that it was from the Kasparian people without him being able to give more data apart that he had met someone who had mentionned the Kasparians. But she still wondered about the validity of that piece of information.

Eventually, she would find out about her kin. The truth is out there. Somewhere.

Again

Gone...


When I got the news, I rushed to Caliban. Krenshar, Miya, Thoth, Cody, LilyBell and Gallagher stood on a ridge looking at the spectacle. Caliban was burning.

I hear it's the Purple Bellies who decided that Caliban was too subversive to continue its operation.

Again. My second home in the 'verse was in smoke.

Emotions are much too intense to even sound coherent...Sorry, folks.

Even for me, who is a pacifist by heart, the taste of revenge burned my throat...No smoke of the fires of Caliban could taste like this.

Sprax

For some scientific reason that I couldn't explain, the air on Caliban was getting cooler and cooler. Happy to have found a coat to keep warm, I could be found generally in the morning never to far away from my fireplace. Maybe I could suggest to Krenshar a barrel or an open pit where I could warm my hands in the courtyard, making the place quieter, with me not shouting out to the people outside in order to get their attention? Steal Jane's barrel at Firefly's, maybe? But then Milo would eat me alive. Not good. Or Jane.

I was broke, so I rarely went shopping these days. I was therefore quite content to hang around the Dome, chatting with the residents, particulary Miya and Thoth, Vega and naturally Krenshar. I saw Jai once in a while. She's nice and now has flowing blond hair which is very pretty. But I digress.

One particular slow Saturday night, alone in the Dome, entered a visitor. At first, I wasn't even curious. He was walking around exploring the grounds, like most visitors do. But then as he passed me on, as I was siting at the picnic table in the yard, he called on to me: "So Miss, have you gotten over the termination of Blackburne yet, or are you still moping like a spoiled brat?" Now, talk about good manners from your friendly neighboroud stranger? Merde.

Gut reaction, I swore in French, because swearing in French is probably how I was brought up if only I could remember a bit more of where I came from... I digress again.

"The name is Captain Jonathan Sprax, of the Duvernay division of the Alliance. "

He didn't wear the usual gray micey coloured outfit. He did look particularly clean and shiny. "Under cover cap'tain? Your brown coat seems kinda new though." I said. "Yours isn't, and I see you have the same boots you had the last time we met... Rough times, Miss? or playing the Caliban Hobo? " By then, my blood was boiling. Before I could utter another word, he put his shiny boot on the seat approaching me with a half smile, his eyes showing no emotion at all. "Sorry about Blackburne, Miss, it seemed there wasn't much choice...you know, terrorists, secessionists...no good people, some say thieves and raiders, bootleggers..." "Sir, they were Reavers...they were Reavers...", I stuttered.

He straightenend , scratched his clean shaven face, "Just one advice, Miss Koba, tell your friends that we haven't forgotten them, and even if you are sprawled out on all these moons, we haven't forgotten about you guys."

And on that note, he turned away and TP'd out.

Sprax, Jonathan Sprax.

Aurevoir

Gark sat on the stairs of Firefly's bar and looked straight ahead on what she called "Main Street". The buildings on Hale's Moon stood there, silently peering at her. She could almost see past Fook's, if she squinted her eyes well enough.

The silence was quite unusual. Even that early in the morning, Mr. Krenshar would sometimes come running to salute her. Even Jayne who stood usually on her spot near the porch was nowhere to be seen. But then Mr. Krenshar had left too it seemed. He too had moved on.

Garkuyan had never considered herself very nostalgic, since the past is something that she, like so many others, has no control and which she cannot change. Genetic factors, cultural environment, human needs,the natural curses occurring that lead to choices, good or bad. The passing of time and it's consequences on everything, on the body first of all, and on the soul too becomes clearer as the birthdays come and go. There is not much to do about it.

But that morning, the notion of time gone by resonated in her head, hammering, hammering, hammering. Days gone by. Ghosts and memories.

Time had come to go. Garkuyan was leaving Firefly's bar.

For some reasons, probably based on her being unaware of her family roots, she dealt very badly with the loss of people leaving her immediate circle. And as much as she was aware that people leaving is a natural process and new people entering one's life is also the nature of things, and is such a very good thing, she missed a lot of people who had decided to go their way, or came once in a while to the bar and not for long.

A few names popped in her head. Sabrina, Belize, Archer, Maikar, Micah, Ben, Lyric, to name some that came to mind. Cholgosh and Amy. She didn't see much of Seana now. Anya had left suddenly. Hollow. Andrew. And some other people she had forgotten the names, but never the smiles.

Maybe, even if on a rational perspective she understood the situation, after all these months she still missed Downporte a lot, the community she had there, the family she had, close-knitted and so very familiar. Maybe she still couldn't cope very well with it's destruction. The void had gotten bigger and bigger.

There wasn't many choices. Silence was the the only way.

"You'll could come back...maybe. No, I'm leaving. You'll be back. You'll miss your friends. They will miss you. They will forget you. Just take a break: you rarely do. You're restless and edgy these days. " The words, crashing constantly in her mind, were bringing on a slight case of a headache and nausea.

Gark stood up and entered the bar. She stood there a while, silent and lost in her world, shivering. She still wondered why her picture never appeared on Mr. Barnes's TV. She shrugged. She wondered if she somehow had missed something.

Her self-pity was a clear indication that a pause was needed. Now.

She turned around, waved to the Firefly spirits and smiled meekly.

"Aurevoir, mes amis."

Gark left the building.

Sunset

Life is slow.

I thought I was strong and find out I am not.

Blackburne is gone and now has been transformed into a nice, hilly, green island with mountains and nice houses with pools and plastic ducks. I see no one there. The place is an uninviting 'burb.

I miss my Blackburne terribly, and it's been many weeks now since "The Last Raid" occured. And still I am stuck, images frozen into my mind, images of my home lost now forever.

I know I am not alone in this hard place. Immy, Lorie, AlisonLynn all miss our moon. Mr Barnes too and Lauralai must talk about it sometimes in their alcove. Others probably too that I am not aware of. LilyBell.

The bar has reopened near Hale's and as far as I know it seems to be going well. Nice people from Hale drop by and it has been quite cheerful.

But still the scar has not healed.

I must wait and live the sunset.

Pause

To all readers, followers or in hiding,

A chapter is closed. I will not be writing in the near future. We will have to wait to see if another one will start.

It was fun and I hope you enjoyed it.

Take care. Life is good, and if not as you wish, it's the only one we have so let's live it up the best we can.

*hugs and kisses*

Garkuyan Koba and typist

Closure

Well, life at Blackburn Downporte is over. Definitively.

A few days ago, I packed up the few remaining things I had in my little Earth Room loft, replacing them in my inventory with a sigh the entire 'Verse population probably heard. Yes I shed a tear and more than one, to be honest. This place had been my home for a long time now, and it had echoed my laughter and my sorrows,and also the sound of my dancing shoes on the bar's floor. In the early mornings or in the middle of the night, I had whispered all my dreams, wishes and secrets to Black Horse as I brushed him in the dry air of Blackburne. I had teased Milo more than once, and ran with him around the shops and dwellings, playing with him until he growled and hid in Sabrina's garage, tired and cranky. But this was over now. As the rumors of an immanent massive raid persisted, I looked in my mirror and was quite honest with myself: I couldn't face it. I had to go.

Last night, as the Reavers attacked the dry sandy moon which what was or had been the home for so many of us, I went to my little loft for a last time, sneaking behind the burning buildings, watching out for snipers and feeling pretty silly in my apricot colored long dress and high heels, while my friends were battling the Reavers and dying or being wounded.

I stood outside a while on the balcony, the sound of gunfire and screaming freezing my blood and paralyzing me near the ramp, at the point where Meyers shouted and asked if I was alright. I muttered "yes" with no conviction at all. I thanked him for having been such a good and patient neighbor. He waved, turned around and returned to the battle zone. I entered the loft. All was in order. As I checked one last time for forgotten stuff I could have left behind, I found under the living room's rug a little piece of paper.

On it, a simple sentence: " Woman, I love you.".

I smiled.

As the fire caught on the porch where me and my family had shared stories, emotions laughs and tears, and the fighting intensified and that I knew the end was near, I realized that as much as I was leaving forever a place that I had called home, I wasn't quitting the most important of all, the friends I cherish with a passion, the loving men and women who care and listen to me with patience and understanding.

Downporte Firefly was going down. Life, Love and Friendship was still there alive and thriving.

"All is well, all is well".

I closed the door behind me, glancing one last time at Downporte that I knew so well. Clutching my little note, I waved, smiled and before TP'ing out to safety, I whispered: "See you soon, pretty people".

Healer

Many human beings, man and woman, never know how to deal with it. Loss. The ultimate trauma. May it be friends that drift apart or family members that part, love or companionship that dwindles and dies, loss can cut deep in one's soul.

After the initial shock, he puts on a brave face. She stops talking. She goes away. He hurts in total silence or almost. She sleeps on it or tries to.

Words transformed into blades, coldness settles in, the damage can be destructive.

Time is the Healer, but memories of laughter, feelings of complicity, reminders of good times will remain, even if the pictures fade slightly.

Time, the Healer.

Life goes on. Life goes on.

Birthday

Happy birthday, Garkuyan!

Today is your Rez day. Two years old...Wow... You've grown quite well since birth. From a shy person that kept mostly to herself, you are now almost sociable *giggles*. Your style has changed a bit, sure enough. You still care about your old friends, and some new people share your life also. Situations have evolved. Life is good.

Remember your coming in the world? What had started as a simple search for software on the Net resulted in my reading an article in one of the Webzine about this Second World. The article was quite informative and dealt also about the casino issue, now banned, with its legal implications.

I downloaded the game, and when you unlogged, daybreak was beginning to look like morning. You pouted. I said "Heck... I need coffee! and have to go to work...*arghhh*".

Remember the first "date", where you received a new "skin" as a gift. Now talk about staying humble here...

And all about the lands rented, owned, and houses you got or bought, rezzed, unrezzed, got built, destructed, re-rezzed etc... If not a shaker, you are at least a mover.

You have been through lots, and most of it good, some very good. You have met great people which I will not list because some people -like yourself- have a problem with lists because inevitably they must end somewhere and you would hate leaving good people out. But they know who they are and what they mean to me and what I mean to them.

What holds the future for you? You have no idea, and frankly you don't care much. Each breath is a new one and you cherish them all.


Take care, have fun, be nice to people, stay real.

*Kisses and hugs*.

Your typist.

Spring

Spring time at Downport...

Chollie was spinning his tunes that night, if I remember well. Only a few patrons had arrived at Firefly's bar, the night being young and all.

While Immy was on stage showing her charms to the beat of Chollie's rockin' music, a few clients unknown to us "regulars" were dropping by, as it's the case on many occasions at Firefly's.

I don't remember the name, but I remember the body. A foxy ladie, cute as a button, and curved like a 67' mustang. She came in, walked around the bar, and came back to the door. Didn't say a word. She looked at Mr. Barnes and then said in a loud voice for such a small avie:

"So ok, let's split from this place."

Mr. Barnes straightened up peering calmly at Foxy. He let go of the rag he was using on the counter top of the bar, and said: "We?"

She stood there, her paws settling firmly on her waist and reiterated her demand: "Yes, you and me. Let's get out of here."

Mr. Barnes: " Well, Ma'am, I'm working now. I can't just leave like the bar."

Silence hit the room.

Mr. Barnes looked at Foxy and pointed slowly to his tag.

Foxy's eyes followed Mr. Barnes's finger.

"Besides, Ma'am, I already have two women, Lauralai and Lorie. I ain't got much time to court someone else even as nice as you."

On that note, she turned her heels and left the Firefly's bar.

At which point, Chollie shaking his head muttered: " Gotta tell you Nack, you must be attractive like hell. Must be a record. In 2 minutes flat, she was ready to take you on and bring you to the altar."

Mr. Barnes looked up, grinned and returned to his rag to his spotless counter top.

AuroraBlue

Life in Blackburne isn't always a bowl of cherries. Reavers and bots are always lurking about. People come and go noseing around our homes. My alarm is always on, day or night. Even with Lauralai's work on the sewers, most of the time the air is unbreathable; the stench from radioactive debris whose molecules are dissolving with a fight can be overbearing.

And then...AuroraBlue.

I saw her two nights ago. A lovely child on our small moon. She came to the bar to meet Lauralai and drink gecko milk, I think. (Not my type of poison as one knows.) She made me think of St-Exupery...so intensely. While Sabrina's music blared like mad, I managed to catch small talk about AuroraBlue being Lilybell's child, who it seems passed away during Aurora's coming in our world. Sad. Life can be sad.

But AuroraBlue is charming. Yet, I fret for her. Our moon and our neighors are tough to live by. Food is scarces. Water a rarerity. Meds are as needed as they are unavailable. People can be get pretty nasty in a blink of an eye.

I touch wood and hope the best for her. Wished LilyBell was still with us, with AuroraBlue.

**************

"After that, the little prince climbed a high mountain. The only mountains he had ever known were the three volcanoes, which came up to his knees. And he used the extinct volcano as a footstool. "From a mountain as high as this one," he said to himself, "I shall be able to see the whole planet at one glance, and all the people . . ."

But he saw nothing, save peaks of rock that were sharpened like needles.

"Good morning," he said courteously.

"Good morning--Good morning--Good morning," answered the echo.

"Who are you?" said the little prince.

"Who are you--Who are you--Who are you?" answered the echo.

"Be my friends. I am all alone," he said.

"I am all alone--all alone--all alone," answered the echo."



The Little Prince
Antoine de St-Exupéry
Chapter 19.

Touch

In this world and in the other worlds too, we strive to taste the sweet waters of Love, Respect or both. The lives of others intertwine with ours or clashes, runs parallel to our own little universe glimpsing quickly, in an endless merry-go-round or in anarchic patterns. Some moments mirror the deserts of our souls where the sands stifles the better part of our natural enthusiasm. Some moments are gushing volcanoes of passion where emotional turmoil borders on possessiveness. Many times, we are standing on plateaus, alone or not, looking at the sky and feeling neutral to the point of stillness.

But beyond these strong emotional pulls lies the need to link. Wanting the contact, needing the bond, not necessary in a planned and structured way as the ones determined by family ties or friendly bindings or romantic wants. Just to let one soul's touch us and to touch one's soul, for a brief moment maybe, but whose imprints leaves eternal even if elusive marks.

May your links and mine be cherished as they are, not as what they should be or could have been. May they multiply and act as a calming balm especially when confronted by the difficult stretches in our lives.

Origins

As I move from place to place, from moon to moon, to the main land and then back to the outer rims again, like the female wanderer that I am, my little sterling bracelet follows. On it, scratched by what appears by a pocket knife are the words "Kas". The little bracelet is an integral part of my little luggage.

Origins are important. People need to know the beginnings since they cannot know the end.

I know this for a fact. If I had cashed in lindens for each person, replicant, dragon who ever asked me: "Where do you come from?" I would be a millionaire by now. I would own my boat, my castle, my underground antinuclear compound and my garden of magical herbs.

I would probably have also had the funds to ask scientists to search for the potion which could bring my memories back. I have so few of them and the ones that comes to the surface do in a haphazardly way, like small marbles rolling all over the place, no pattern, no logic, no structure.

Kas. It's origins. But this is all I know. Wish I could find out more.

Owning one's past is the present understood. At least, some.

Night

"Now the crickets are singing
The vesper bells ringing
The cat's curled asleep in his chair
I'll go down to Bill's Bar
I can make it that far
And I'll see if my friends are still there
Yes, and here's to the few
Who forgive what you do
And the fewer who don't even care
And the night comes on
It's very calm
I want to cross over, I want to go home
But she says, Go back, go back to the World."


Leonard Cohen
"Night comes on"

Spell

I have a very nice tattoo called "Longing". At one point, I wore it all the time, as a reminder of Life's never ending cycle of wanting closeness, truth, affection, friendship, empathy.

I haven't worn it in a long time. Didn't need the reminder, I guess. But tonight, blackness falls upon me as I walk the streets of Blackburne, where only Jane silently warms her hands on the fire bin, and Meyers sits on his beach contemplating the sea. It's on me, burning my flesh, contrasting with the coldness of the air.

("Having a pre-teen moment again, Gark? What the heck are you longing for this time?" asks my typist who is wearing her Don't-you-start-that-on-me-cutie! face glued on.)

I have been pretty much away from Blackburne these days and wondering if I should be moving on. Not that being away as anything to do with my life here, but somehow I feel lost tonight as I walk around, wondering if somehow my presence here is making life a bit less serene for many of the people I love a lot and cherish who come here to love and be loved, laugh, dance, talk, drink, cheer and be merry.

In fact, I feel like the front page of the Wall Street Journal: Mucho Bad News All The Time.

Not that I rank in the top 5 of the most popular people on this moon, and I don't particular try to achieve stardom status, so some people couldn't probably care less if I go to the Wastes and eat all that salty stew until I blow up and die of radioactive poisonning, and dissolve in the bottom of a gulch somewhere.

("Aww, poor baby...". My nice typist hands me a kleenex, takes it back, blows her nose, gives it back to me and says with a smile: "Now, you have something to whine about, hun.")

But still. I feel like I'm a never-ending visit to the dentist. And it starting to dawn on me that maybe I have some sort of sickness, or bad karma coming back.

Maybe my strength is losing me.

Maybe I am doomed. Maybe some spirit cast a spell, a real bad one.

*sigh*.

My typist agrees: *sigh*.

Wasted

A long, long time ago it seems.

Damken...Smart, intuitive, daring, youngish. Sharp tongue and cocky speaks, nice rags, Dane maybe. A dandy, suave. Wore these fancy cowboy boots with elaborate silver decorations.

We met on one of the numerous 'verse cities. Night time, very very night time.

"So, has your moon risen yet or are you still Cheerio-honey eating as we speak, milk dripping on your keyboard?"

I didn't say a word. Anyway, my typist's mouth was full and she was wiping the keys with a Scott towel paper, not seeing much because the moon was not shining in the living room where her laptop rests in permanence, replacing the ashtray which was once the Love her life.

After regaining some sort of composure...(ah! the magic of the mind), we started to talk, in a very adult way, which I found quite peculiar after having met successively a clown on drugs, a priest who said five F words in each sentence, and a vampire/salesman/sudoku addict with a penchant for fart jokes. Damken was a blessing, an angel in disguise.

We roamed around cities and moons for a what seemed for ages, talking architecture and pumpkin based meals - two subjects which one could literally become insomniac with - and settled for a while in a deserted diner, near a blues joint, where two rats were biting each other, organic material not always being available on many moons.

Me: Tell me, what is your enjoyment on these vasts lands?

Him: I lie, I steal, I screw people, I seduce defenseless damsels, I hassle store keepers and stuff I don't care to talk about.

Me: Hmm..So what does a nice guy like you do for a livin' in a such a god forsaken land?

Him: A part from the love of bad-ass women and my little enjoyments of petty crimes, I poach geckos and resell it 100 dollars a piece to downtrodden colonists who make slimy soup with it who feed their brood with the mixture. Good paying job I have.

I doubted he would be celebrating retirement.

Life separated us after a few "tête-à-tête". Never saw him again. Just a few IMs popping here and there. And then no more. I kinda forgot about him after a while.

Until mid-afternoon yesterday.

As I was walking in the Wastes, my eyes caught sight of a tiny silver cowbell in the sand. Damken's boots, no doubt in my mind. The Damken boy was probably lying there in a few feet of sand near one of the sheds.

What happened? One thing for sure, he either poached one gecko too many or colonists suddenly decided to feed their dogs to something more substantial and had his remains scattered in the Wastelands.


Damn if I know. What a waste.

Life is not always playtime in the 'verse.

Bash

What a party! Nice dresses, men in great clothes. The music was great. Firefly was decorated so nicely by Lauralai, Lorie and Mr. Barnes. It was just grand! The champagne was chilled to perfection. Thanks, hon'.

I just loved it.

I'm just sorry my camera broke down real early in the evening. Darn! No pictures of the bash. *sigh*. A good thing Mr. Barnes and Seana are better equipped than me. The pictures they took are really nice.

Wonderful night. A night to remember. Bravo.

P.S.: As for the picture that flashed at one point, since we are "The Pretty People", better that than one of a dying elephant. That really would kill a party.

Woot!

Tonight is Ball Night at Firefly!

Firefly owners, staff and patrons are putting on shiny threads and bling-bling to dance the night away. Firefly is celebrating it's 2 years of existence. Woot!

Nervousness about the event was in the air lately. Anxiety about dresses and tuxs ran high too.

I intend to go and have fun and be merry.

A party is a party is a party. Woot!

Memories

No, it's not an hallucination.

From time to time, I wake up suddenly in my loft known as the Red Room, startled and confused, sweating profusely as the sun starts its ascension on the horizon.

At first glance, all seems calm on our small moon. The local residents are fast asleep. TD's boudoir lamp is sometimes on. A neighbor forgets to turn off his radio: I hear the faint crackling sound lost in the cold night air. I know AlisonLynn is probably asleep on the porch, after a long night working at the bar. Visitors have left long ago and returned home, except for the occasional newbie lost in space or looking for some sort of a good time. Nothing is very different from the usual.

And then it hits me.

Waves of the scent crashes on me. It engulfs my loft, penetrating the bricked walls of Lauralai's small building where I live, the air becoming thick with it. The perfume cascading, rolling down the streets of Blackburn, pungent and sweet: the smell of hibiscus.

I wake up in a shout. No, I'm not hallucinating. I feel it.

Most people of some curiosity or intelligence know that Blackburne's land was once a beautiful, leafy, wonderful place, known and enjoyed for its rivers, forests and green hills. Animals, birds and fish thrived here. The air was clean. The water, crystal clear.

And then the Alliance came. The war forever altering the landscape. Destruction destructed the domain. Loss, radioactivity, dry and raw land. Elders and people present at the time have talked about it. TransNational Archives have rooms full of documented material of the Barbarian Era. Denial is not an avenue here. History is the Truth.

So what is this nice smell that comes in a rush, when Life is unconscious, at Blackburne?

I don't know. I am not a scientist. I like dancing, wine, poetry, laughter. I am a disciple of Bacchus not Einstein. But my typist - Bless her soul - feels redeemed.

As a young child, she told her "Maman", that contrary to ordinary beliefs, rock formations have a soul. They feel and they remember, not like homo sapiens, but still, they are not just quartz and granite and formidable chemistry organized in such a way. Maman was not amused and turned the volume up on the Bugs Bunny cartoon praying this would all pass come adolescence.

So if my typist's theory has any value, which I totally find rational, this is what goes on certain nights on Blackburne.

For a few minutes, the moon remembers. It recalls a piece of Time, of what used to be long ago. It shouts the fragrance of Life as it was. It recalls. Let it all remind us the importance of memories. Nothing really dies.

It just fall asleep.

For a while.