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September 29, 2014

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Flight of the Melinoë

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Flight of the Melinoë – Internal Memo

March 31st, 1940
White Sands, New Mexico
From the office of Commander Elias Mattox

 

To the esteemed members of the board,

Its hard to believe we’ve come this far!

Each and every one of you should feel immense pride at the hurdles we’ve overcome to get to this point, now less than 24 hours away from launch. I’d like to personally thank you for the exciting opportunity to command the fine men aboard this vessel.

To commemorate the struggles and celebrate this historic achievement I thought I’d give a brief summary of how this company and the forward thinking members of the board managed to beat the odds and crystallize dreams of one man and millions more into reality.

I can still remember how seeing the presentation at the 1933 World’s Fair made my eyes sparkle with wonder and stirred a deep desire that I didn’t know existed. Thoughtfully billed as a joint venture between science and religion all the pamphlets exclaimed that this mission, this craft, would be the key to unlocking a brilliant new future for humanity. “A bridge to a new world, your chance to come closer to the lord since Adam and Eve and unlock the mysteries of the universe.”

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September 29, 2014

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Dispatch from the Melinoë – Month Three

Checking in again with another update on life aboard the Melinoë.

This month we bid a final farewell to the priest and held a brief ceremony for his passing.

At first I worried that the two men whom I had to inter would be upset at the sight of his wrapped body and considered leaving them in the hold.

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Dispatch from the Melinoë – Month Six

We thought we’d catch them with their pants down, that we’d burst through the doors and crush any resistance with sheer numbers. But they were waiting for us.

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April 15, 2014

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Ruminations

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Ties That Bind

A tree beholds many things.

What is time to a Willow, an Evergreen, an Ash?

A human’s life is but a snap of fingers, one tiny pebble in Earth’s winding stream of memories. Our own ego rolls these tiny rocks into the crashing boulders of self we think we deserve to be. All while under Oaken gaze successive families live and die cradled beneath its leafy limbs.

Would it scream if it could? When our axes bite hungrily into its sides would it cry out?

Maybe it sees more of itself in humans with each generation, living to be cut down and packaged into some other faintly familiar form. Until use has tired and its cast off, forgotten, and tumbles into the water as just another biodegradable pebble. Perhaps they’d scoff at the bluster of this young upstart, to think his claim more just than the planets longest tenured denizen.

When the Fir checks the time there’ll be no one there to wag a finger, no prostrations at faded altars, no time for last laughs, no “I told you so’s,” or “if only’s.” Listen to the frantic pawing of man for his last tortured breath and you’ll hear one loud crack.

The sound of the last judgment.

The sound of a wooden gavel.