The Snake Said

            The clouds loomed above.  Lightning cracked and thunder yelled, challenging the devil. The old women walked covered by black attire with dolled-up faces, a contradiction in this sordid fate.  Dim lights betrayed their lingering eyes at dawn, dreams gone and life frail, soon to be forever forgotten as the cracked shells of unimportant, decaying dust.

The ceremonial makeup melted at the rain’s harsh command; these women ruined, now wet “witches” walking to the guideless gallows during their stolen time, raccoon eyes dark and infected with cries for innocence long gone in drowned memory.  They wanted to be pardoned to another life long and pleasant, to a haven hidden from the world and its tricks on the poor.  The arrow of desire was trapped in their minds as they looked forward, most crying for the injustice unheard by their captors’ keen yet selective ears.

They continued anyway.

The women’s burning souls blazed and roared, twisting, and playing on the emotion of their tense, stiff bodies like the spells they’d never uttered in Satan’s church, where they’d never been. There was little escape for the tormented minds save the coming death and also the final pride of a fighting flame, dignity screaming out the cursed words of the faltering reality that demanded review, for peace, for goodness, for justice!

These women wanted to be remembered beyond their time but not for mighty fame.  A slight notion of revenge brought grins to several dun, cracked faces, a disturbing sight for the crowd to wonder about, a hint of worry traveled on the wind.

 The old women were to be carbon copies, never again named with crying black streams of unholy mascara on their faces, like coal instead of glittering diamonds.  They waited their turn in the line, their own funerals in the mountains of mourning where their loved ones might have once grieved.

They were not loved due to delusional distractions of hardship, never unique in tears and fears with the poor children crying at their warm breasts to suckle just a little more.  All the same. Cellulose and loose skin had come for them all along with guilty spider veins slithering around life like Eve’s friend the snake: you are but a mortal. 

A runway train of insincerity crashed through the ignored truth that day.  The truth never boasted for esteem, a casualty of the long and difficult war, always honorable in the conduct, but weak on the world that belongs to the devil himself.  The fiend roamed and delighted in the grey graveyard at the edge of the small town where it was under his control.

The unworthy feats of the minds’ eyes brewed within the narrow scope of the crowd’s ignorance.  They cheered as the blade fell each time. The glamor painted a fierce reality of ruby gems. Those judgmental faces smiled as the women’s heads were positioned on sticks, seeds the group’s egos used to inspire the arrogant thirst of self-righteousness within this foolish crowd.  They would one day fade with the crime where they’d be equally helpless to cheering murderers, even if they had to wait for cancer or winding, ugly veins that spoke in simple words.

You are but mortal. 

           

             

           

             

Dance

Ashley let her thin, pale fingers trace the edges of the small, rough box. The golden design wrapped around the object like a choking necklace, tight with eternity’s embrace and promise, an overly invested mother to favored offspring, perhaps. The woven words had lost their previous meanings to time, dead hands caressing each in faded memories, desires and dreams themselves.

The bold symbols were exquisite beyond the cheap charlatans of imitation, along with all the careless collectors with spitting words akin to noisome monkeys, banal verses from fools with powdered, rose blush and sagging breasts who fell to death into a deep grave of complacency, a slumber that would never be bothered or cared for by the gods of housewives. Their possessions gathered in the trash, not dwelling on the final, flawed manicure or the life without meaning that wasted away blubber to bones under the great green grass.

The box breathed in its own right, alive.

The carvings wanted to hold on, the lovers in a foreign world where awe was damned to the talent-offended masses, and the power given to the obscene and ignoble peasant kings with their ill-appetites of self-indulgence above honor and truth.

The box seemed to know the ways of the world without having to scream the profane. It knew.

Rays from the sun acted as a grim reminder in the pungent, stale air of the attic where Ashley’s mind crawled with these useless analytics and ponderings, idle thoughts with distracting weight. How long could she wait for this power? What would it mean for her? She asked herself.

Mold held fast to the old wood and insulation, and she coughed on its cue. She wanted to move to a newer house but couldn’t afford to. So particles moved in the heavy, hot air and spun around enchantingly, landing on the box with a whisper louder than a drum.

Disturb me, the box seemed to say. She hoped she was worthy of its contents, of its will.

Ashely knew well what rested its crimson, cubed interior, knew and what it would take to use such a strange item in context of her modern world where simple witchcraft meant lunacy, dancing in the woods under a full moon and chanting to the sky gods and the forces of elemental nature.

The box meant nothing to their passing hands, not to the typical witches, a pretty thing but not prized, not an accomplished item for them to use with wishes of acceptance through orgies and cries to the waving forest air, to the creeping tide, to grey hair, to the dead stars with ancient and useless light they looked at for answers. They embraced each other as willing, strong closet lesbians in order to quell the mediocrity of their lives in which they mostly spent in the trashed kitchen with screaming babies and neglectful husbands.

They forgot the truth and tried to cheat a way to escape. If only they would have known about its powerful secret, a something in the void they falsely worshipped, those women.

Many people kept boxes and secrets even more glamorous, though scarcely together as in this case. Ashley’s grandmother often warned her of the power within the dark, redwood chamber, “Don’t let the flames reach you! I see fire.” A vision. As a child, such words struck fear in Ashley, and she obeyed with wilting emotion. The box stayed under the bed like an unwelcome pet from a past life – almost. Now older and perhaps wiser past a juvenile fear of the unknown, temptation won the dual in her mind, and Ashley let her finger move on to the lock seductively, slow and paced. She toyed with the key. She pulled the gatekeeper open with a snap and held her breath. Her eyes closed momentarily.

She could not share the moment.

Her grandmother was dead, taken by the worms to dust and buried under the old woman’s favorite waving tree, a weeping willow that swept the air, reaching for what it could never have, but, at the same time, not ashamed of its roots, a swift song to wish for peace around frail branches. Only the wind pitied it, paying it more attention than necessary. The tree never thanked anyone.

The box hummed, bringing Ashley back to the moment. Her eyes opened. A light glowed within the chamber, shy at first then…

No one could warn or stop her from opening the box minus sheer divinity. The old forms of gods were busy deities with more pressing matters in the flawed world of lame species that had fallen from grace in evolution’s clockwork binge.

She flipped the lid all the way off. Her eyes greedily gazed forward. She took in the reaction.

A flash boasted itself through the hot air to show off its power with flipping sparks of various hues: pink, purple, green and blue. Four rocks cracked and broke out of the blood red box to overdo a first impression. A quick flame leapt into the air then spun down with in the hard rocks not from this world. Within their brilliant shine, the mysteries of the world could be understood, a sort of philosopher’s stone but real, not imaginary and not for prolonging the life of feeble mortals in a decaying world of flesh and sin.

What do I want to know? Ashley thought of a lifetime of questions: why do bees sting? Does a diamond really last forever? Where am I in the universe?

I could ask Google all of these questions, Ashley scolded herself with a hushed cry. What wouldn’t the internet know? Could such a question exist that mankind had not sought with a sloppy tongue, the greatness of the mystery teasing the slow comprehension of weak, sentinel beings beneath it?

The flames, beware of the flames. I see fire. The flames engulf everything.

Ashley picked up the pink rock and held it in her hand. The hot stone sang a note then glowed to show its power, its loud beats pounding forward the alien life. It pulsed with a heart, a living creature. On the ground, the others grew impatiently hot. Ashley picked them up and lined them on the cracked wooden table.

Okay, think of a good question, Ashley told herself faintly. She still hadn’t overcome the original shock and show of the rowdy, all-knowing stones.

“How will time end?” She asked.

“It will only continue to begin.” The stones sang a few notes into the tense air, creating a laughing atmosphere. Were they mocking Ashley?

“Will I find love?”

“Not in death.” What a strange reply Ashley thought. She rubbed her hand against the rocks. They hopped to life and started to cut her, jagged edges piercing her fragile mortal flesh. The blood poured out in a river of pain and surprise.

Ashley jumped to her feet. Her head spun in the clouds of confusion and primal fear. The rocks sizzled and teased underneath her and then grew, a sour odor filled the air. The blood brought them to life, an ancient sacrifice having been performed in a modern haze of miscommunication and damnation. Soon, strange creatures stood before Ashley with thick, rotting and purple skin, no eyes and a slick, protruding stomach that hung forward. Why did her grandmother only say the stones know the universe and that the flames would engulf all?

“That is the answer.”

“Wha-what…” Ashley said.

“We are beings of fire and knowledge. Do you fear the truth, you lowly being?”

Ashley’s mouth sagged.

“Do you think we’d give you the answers so that you could keep destroying the universe with your childish and selfish ways? We’ve kept the box alive in the arms of the fearful, of the delusional, of the vain seeking what should never be asked. Who think they are better and worthier than they are… The other Earthlings that were seeded on faraway worlds have left a path of destruction in the universe. Their disorganized minds disrupted the sanity of the stars. Your current population is no different, wars and nuclear bombs, lies and greed. The blood must be purified for the next creation.” He sounded like an Aztec god.

“What is the fire? The next?” Ashley asked.

“Purity.” And with that, the beings began to burn through the attic’s flimsy wood. An unnatural wind blew in the room, and the resident rats scattered and ran save one. Ashley protested, staggering, her own words drowned out by destruction’s wisdom and the rat’s dirty paw which penetrated her shocked, open mouth. The small creature hurried to freedom with the same quick moves as when his kind had walked with dinosaurs on that buried world of teeth and muscle, size and hunger in dangerous, wild jungles never seen by mankind

I should have danced with the lesbians, came Ashley’s last thought before the passion of heat and fury took her under the piercing flames and laughing gods.

She joined her grandmother in the silence of forever, time she’d never remember.

Ants

Ants

            Charlie picked up the pencil and stabbed the paper again.  If he couldn’t pass basic robotics, he’d never make it as an engineer.  His parents would disown him, and he’d have to sweep floors for a living.  He’d seen the others.

            Why did school have to be so difficult? Charlie asked.  He’d rather spend his days outside and inside with delicious coffee and well-written books.  One day, he hoped to publish his own short work since he had little talent writing novels.     

            While Charlie felt sorry for himself, a little creepy ran across his desk.  Looking down, he saw a busy ant scurry off of the surface and back to the half opened window.  It had six legs of annoyance and ten seconds to live. 

            Charlie shut the door as fast as he could.  He figured the thing was a minor disruptor, and he went back to his endless drills.  His curly, brown hair grabbed him as he attempted to straighten it out.  The words got lost in a translation of sorrow. 

            Suddenly, Charlie noticed another being run across his page with quick legs and a dark body that helped him hide in the warm dirt. 

            I wonder what it would be like to be an ant, Charlie mused.  He pushed the back of his office chair until the thick plastic mated with the floor.  Blood gushed like a waterfall down his face. The hard, wooden floor refused him mercy.  Not only, but the thin pages had mixed in with the mess.

            “DAMMIT!” Charlie yelled.  The neighbor beneath his apartment banged on the wall.  He salvaged his assignment as much as possible.  The pages laughed at him from their crypt.  He’d never finish.

            Getting up, he gathered the pages and laid them next to his desk.

            Why me? He asked the cosmos.  What great offense could he have possibly inflicted upon the universe?  Outside, the wind breathed, and the small Aloe Vera plant swayed its juicy arms.   Lightning came down and cursed a tree.  The tree shifted east and west then a great branch fell down like a dead baby.

            Charlie made his way back to his desk.  The bleeding had stopped.  Now there was the chore of cleaning the flood up.  He picked up the disordered papers.  Suddenly, three ants appeared and ran across his desk like little commandos. 

            “Why have you been employed to destroy my future?!” He asked of the small creatures.  They paid him no mind in their quest for food.  The leader of them disappeared first. The others left Charlie’s sight. He decided to let it go. 

            I need a drink, he told himself.  He’d go for some whiskey.  Recently, he’d passed the twenty one year mark, and this surprised him somehow.  Life had roared into his ears a few times.  He’d die without a future, a tiny voice within said, teasing him with his own thoughts. 

            Whiskey left the bottle and went into the glass of ginger ale.  He used the last can.  This also caused him to feel annoyance despite the sweet flow of heaven dripping down his throat.  He’d always loved whiskey, enjoyed the way it made him feel.  As a small boy, his grandfather allowed him a small drink of the delicious liquid.  He’d smiled and hugged the old man. 

            Thinking of his grandfather made him sad. The great man had passed away with his old bones demanding an eternal break, his leather skin hardened like a saddle and his teeth running off with youth’s shine.  Still, he had that emotion, a fire about him.  Even in his last days, he hadn’t gone without a fight, but he’d gone.

            Life is cruel, Charlie informed himself, trying to feel more like an adult who accepted the world for what it was and had secured a place for themselves where they belonged. 

            Another ant ran across the desk, his dark body highlighted like an equation of life.  Charlie couldn’t take it anymore, and he slammed his hand to the desk and killed the small fiend.  It thrashed between life and death eventually giving up and fading into the unknown.

            A power rose up inside of him. 

            “That’s what I thought,” Charlie said.  His voice bled with triumph.  “Let another one come,” he teased.  And one came.  Quickly, Charlie smashed it against the red blood on his paper.  The ant died.  His companion, at first unseen, rose up and sprinted towards the edge of the desk.  Charlie got him, too.

            “You are too slow for me!” Charlie laughed, vibrating his chubby stomach.  He put his hands on it and giggled like a girl.  For once in his life, he had power, able to bring life to its end.  He had become a demigod.  These were his thoughts. 

            A knocking came at the door pulling Charlie away from his internal monologue.  The abrupt disturbance in his thoughts caused him to lose track.  He got up from his desk and went to the hard, wooden door. 

            When Charlie opened the door, he gasped.  Fear took over his eyes, and they bulged out, trying to take the view into his mind.  His tongue rattled, but no words came out from Charlie’s lips. 

            It can’t be!  It can’t.

            Charlie tried to shut the door, but a long leg grabbed back with hideous strength. In front of him was a giant, live ant.  This information wouldn’t process in Charlie’s shocked brain.

            “Go away!  I don’t need any bug spray.  How much did they pay you?”

            “Sir, I believe you misunderstood.  I am an officer.”

            Charlie took a step back, and the body came in. 

            “You sure keep your place messy.  Did you ever think you were guilty of a crime instead of blaming the vulnerable?”

            Charlie couldn’t get the words to roll out of his mouth.  He backed up. 

            “You are a criminal for killing those small ants,” the officer said.  He pointed to the badge on his head.  “For this, I’m afraid death is the only option.”  The officer pulled out a knife from his backpack.  He teased it back and forth until he stabbed Charlie.  Blood sprayed everywhere, but Charlie couldn’t clean up this mess. 

Should a Search For Truth Ever Be Subordinate: What is the position of the scientists as a member of society?

Should a search for truth ever be subordinate?

By Albert Einstein

            We are living in a period of such great external and internal insecurity and with such a lack of firm objectives that the mere confession of our convictions may be of significance even if these convictions may be of significance even if these convictions, as all value judgments, cannot be proven through logical deductions.

            There arises at once the question: Should we consider the search for truth—or, more modestly expressed, our efforts to understand the knowable universe through the constructive  logical thought—as an autonomous objective of our work? Or should our search for truth be subordinated to some other objective, for example to a “practical” one? This question cannot be decided on a logical basis.

            The decision, however, will have considerable influence upon our thinking and moral judgment, provided that it si born out of deep and unshakable conviction. Let me then make a confession: For myself, the struggle to gain more insight and understanding is one of those independent objectives without which a thinking individual would find it impossible to have a conscious, positive attitude towards life.

            It is the very essence of our striving for understanding that on the one hand, it attempts to encompass the great and complex variety of man’s experience, and that on the other, it looks for simplicity and economy in the basic assumptions.  The belief that that these that these two objectives can exist side by side is, in view of the primitive state of our scientific knowledge, a matter of faith.  Without such faith I could not have a strong and unshakeable conviction about the independent value of knowledge.

            This, in a sense religious attitude of a man engaged in scientific work has some influence upon his whole personality.  For apart from the knowledge which is offered by accumulated experience and from the rules of logical thinking, there exists in principle for the man of science no authority whose decisions and statements could have in themselves claim  to “Truth.”  This leads to the paradoxical situation that a person who devotes all his strength to objective matters will develop, from a social point of view, into an extreme individualist who, at least in principle, has faith in nothing but his own judgment.  It is quite possible to assert that intellectual individualism and the thirst for scientific knowledge emerged simultaneously in history and remained in separate ever since.

            Someone may suggest that the man of science as sketched in these sentences is no more than an abstraction which actually does not exist in this world, not unlike the homo oeconomicus of classical economics. However, it seems to me that science as we know it today could not have emerged and could not have remained alive if many individual, during many centuries, had not come very close to the ideal. 

            Of course, not everybody who has learned to use tools and methods which, directly or indirectly, appear to be “scientific” is to me a man of science.  I refer only to those individuals in whom the scientific mentality as truly alive.

            What, then, is the position of today’s man of science as a member of society?  He obviously is rather proud of the fact the work of scientists has helped to change the radically the economic life of men by almost completely eliminating the muscular work. He is distressed by the fact that results of his scientific work have created a threat to mankind since they have fallen into the hands of morally blind exponents of political power. He is conscious of the fact that technological methods, made possible by his work, have led to a concentration of economic and also of political power in the hands of small minorities which have come to dominate completely the lives of masses of people, who appear more and more amorphous.

            But even worse: The concentration of economic and political power in the ands of a few has not only made the man of science dependent economically, it also threatens his independence from within; the shredwed methods of intellectual and psychic influences which it brings to bear will prevent the development of independent personalities.

            Thus the man of science, as we can observe with our own eyes, suffers a truly tragic fate.  Striving in great sincerity for clarity and inner independence, he himself, through superhuman efforts, has fashioned the tools which are being used to make him a slave and to destroy him falso from within. He cannot escape being muzzled by those who have political power in their hands.  As a soldier he is forced to sacrifice his own life and to destroy the lives of others even when he is convinced of the absurdity of such sacrifices. He is fully aware of the fact that universal destruction is unavoidable since historical development has led to the concentration of all economic, political, and military power in the hands of national states.  He also realizes that mankind can only be saved if a supernatural system, based on law, would be created to eliminate for all time the methods of brute force.  However the man of science has slipped so much that he accepts the slavery inflicted upon him by the national states as his inevitable fate.

            Is there really no escape for the man of science?  Must he really tolerate and suffer all these indignities?

            Is the time gone forever when, aroused by his inner freedom and the independence of his thinking and his work, he had a chance of enlightening and enriching the lives of his fellow human beings? In placing his work too much on an intellectual basis, has he not forgotten about his responsibility to dignity? My answer is: while it is true that an inherently free and scrupulous person may be destroyed, such an individual can never be enslaved or used as a blind tool.

            If the man of science of our day could find the time and the courage to honestly and critically over his situation and the tasks before him and if he would act accordingly, the possibilities for  a sensible and satisfactory solution of the present dangerous international situation would be considerably improved