Sharing

New media opportunities opened up to the world with the introduction of the internet. In the forty years since this technology came into the world we’ve become familiar with e-mail, comfortable with e-commerce and reliant on search engines. New technology has shaped the way we access and publish information. The internet has molded how we contact each, pulling us away from many of the older methods. Letters and phone calls from far continents still occur; but often MSN, SKYPE or Outlook provide more reliable methods of keeping in touch, and the people we talk to on these platforms are sometimes in the same building.

Denying the changes wrought by this technology means turning a blind eye on the influence new tools have on the way we work. Closing our eyes to the changes yet to come can seriously impede our ability to develop efficiently. The way we work and share our productivity has changed; mostly those changes are for the better. Those changes were partly planned for; some though simply seeped in from the changes found in society itself.

Within our own field of interest SAT 7 provides a great example of embracing new technology. Fourteen years ago they began to share the message of Christ in a new way. Their message went out into areas of the world with inherent difficulties; they used a new medium for communicating with those who could not be reached on foot.

In the same way the Guttenberg Bible was possible thanks to the new medium of movable type printing. Each new medium can bring with it ways to share information, through new distribution and production methods. In the case of Guttenberg the production of bibles of such reliable quality and in such large numbers made it possible to bring the word of God to the masses, with satellite broadcasting SAT 7 saw new methods available to deliver the good news to newly reachable areas.

New opportunities are opening up to us all the time. Technology available today allows wide access distribution networks for video and audio files. Podcasts and RSS feeds, iTunes and Peer to Peer file sharing provide and enable us to produce and distribute content, messages and even evangelistic resources throughout the world. Whether we use these technologies to allow our remotest workers to contribute to the production of resources or simply receive the projects we build here in house the future of delivery and production are there waiting for us to continually adapt to and embrace.

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416 Words

Now I want to have a bath.

The bath tub is all white porcelain, smooth to the touch and reflective. It gives a glowing suggestion of the one bulb over head. The brass fixtures do not detract from the purity or the form, and while utilitarian in use they still speak of the classic concept everyone has when they think of a luxurious hot bath.

Turning on the water allows a crystal clear stream to jet out of the mixer taps; each tap has been adjusted to achieve a tolerable heat. A small dash of bath oils and liquid soap have already begun to react, creating small floating islands of bubbles each one tugging at the plug chain.

Out of the turmoil where the falling stream strikes the slowly rising water level each new bubble climbs. Larger bubbles drag with them their smaller brethren to the far unknown oceans. Masses of tiny bubbles cling together stacking one on top of another, ever higher with new layers forming under the last, slowly reaching for the sides which bring greater stability. Eventually the entire surface forms into a collection of valleys and hills.

The heat of the water in the cold room has added steam to the tiled surfaces; the shaving mirror also now serves no use but as a place to draw reflective doodles. Ventilation from the extractor fan whisks the humid air away, gaseous escapees fleeing the building to join their nimbus and cumulus cousins.

Condensing on the walls the steam rolls down toward the cork floor, trickling along. Beads of moisture race carefree and follow uncharted tracks, joining forces to gain speed and make headway, the bigger droplets are clearly cheating.

Patiently, and without any agenda the towels sit to one side. They feel the air currents brushing past their soft and warm threads. Waiting for the experience to come and pass their time without hurry or bustle. Like them the book awaits the experience but unlike the calm fearless towels this novel does not embrace the liquid terror that approaches.

One other body of liquid sits nearby, a rich dark red wine, the bottle standing open and proud upon the porcelain, beside it a glass two thirds full. Both containers are dappled in dew like buds. Small puddles form beneath their base, where the steam slowly drains back into the tub rejoining the main body of water.

This is going to be a most enjoyable bath.

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401 Words

Keep running

The silence of the clearing is broken as a rushing noise approaches through the brambles and twigs. Stumbling to her knees a young woman pants and gasps for air, fear evident on her face. Everything she’s wearing shows some sign of damage or dirt, from the mud on her trainers and the splashes up the inside of her shins, the scratches on her thighs and the arms of her jacket. Her blond hair is shapeless and ruffled presumably by the branches she’s been failing to push away from her face.

The look of terror and her twitching show the girl is beyond simple fright. As if in some unending nightmare she has been running none stop from a pursuer, some one just a few foot falls behind her. Now for a brief moment she can hear nothing of the monster behind her. This then is a moment to catch her breath; she’s to terrified to call out, and sits timid and fearful, afraid they might find her.

Her silent breaths, in the darkened twilight of this forest, don’t help to still the loud beating of her heart. Her senses alert and her nerves on edge she pauses for a moment longer then trying to sneak away heads to the other side of the clearing and hurries off into the dense trees.

The clearing falls silent again but only for a moment as the tranquillity left behind soon breaks. A hurried crunching of twigs and rustling through the brambles brings a dishevelled figure. Clearly fatigued from its pursuit and needing rest the ragged body slumps to all fours for a moment. Rapid breaths slow and soon shallow out till the only noise is the pounding of a single adrenaline fuelled heart inside her chest.

She stands on her mud caked trainers, feeling the wet denim around her thighs and the sting on her arms and upper legs where thorns have grazed through her jacket and jeans. She feels haggard and frightened like some small animal being hunted. Furtively she glances around as she moves towards the far side of the clearing ready to flea again. Knowing that somewhere behind her someone is chasing after her.

The clearing falls silent again, but only for a moment, then a young blonde woman stumbles out of the brambles. Dropping to the ground with exhaustion and fear, her mind shattered and confused. Knowing only that she must keep running as whatever it is that’s chasing her is not far behind. She can’t stop, she has to keep running.

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423 Words

Sorrows

I wasn’t paying the singer any attention, and just got down to the business of consuming alcohol and drowning my sorrows. After my third double vodka I got a funny look from the barman but the night was still young and I had much to forget. I turned on my bar stool and looked over the clientele.

One of the booths had an old man, looked like a professor in a corduroy jacket with patched on the sleeves; he even had a pipe on the table in front of him. There was a table with three business jocks, all laughs and back slapping, shirts with loose ties. They were sharing a pitcher of beer and bonding in a way I felt was too fake for comfort.

The stage held a acoustic guitar a stool and one lonely looking blues singer. The face on this guy told you more than any lyric he could ever sing, this was the face of a man who knew pain. Though the joint contained more faces, the rested in the darker places of the bar and as such were beyond my interest. I started to listen to this sorrowful man singing his blues. Maybe my pains would shrink if confronted with larger stronger examples of their species.

His woman had left him, and his heart turned to stone, his lyrics told of his losses but I knew this song was just fluff. His heart what was left of it was not in this story. These were the troubles another man had wrote down. I wondered if he had a song to sing that would spill his own beans. I carried my fourth vodka towards the stage and sat at a vacant table.

My new vantage point brought other faces into focus but not a one of them had anything to distract me from the lonely guy. I let his song come to a close and then heckled up to him “Man you sing it, tell us how it is.” I called as I applauded politely

“That I might” he called back “Here’s one you might not know.”

“Well I wake up every morning

Damned cold and alone

Without you baby

Can’t make a house a home.

You just went up and left me

Left me nothing

Not one thing I was due

Nothing but my name

And these…

...destitute blues

My mama never told me

A woman could do such wrong

She never taught me

Never sang me sad songs

I wait for you to come back

I wait for you to write

I wait for hell to freeze over

Each and every night.

I want to tell you

I forgive you

I want to tell you

I’ll forget

I just want to hold you

But all I hold onto

Are the heartache and regret.

Guess I fell for you stories

The tall tales you did tell

The taller they came

The further I fell.

I got nothing against you baby

Cus’ I got nothing at all

You done led me astray

Yeah, You led me astray

When you got away

And all I got left

Are these…

…destitute blues

Ahh Thank you.”

I returned to bar mid way through and had settled up my tab and was leaving as he struggled to the last line. The car park was slick with the rain that had been falling earlier in the night. I was in no state to drive so I walked further into town and found another bar. I still had sorrows to drown. And in this place they just kept bobbing back up to the surface.

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603 words

Orcs Delay

Five of the Orcs fell back and blocked the mouth of the tunnel cutting us off. The rest of their number disappeared out into the pouring rain; we all knew they were heading to the village. Pursuing them was imperative but first we had to fight our way past the five green skinned warriors.

Arcane words and the sting of power made my skin crawl as Merril’s first spell leapt from her staff toward one of the Orcs, I registered the spells effect as some binding tangle wire that wrestled her target to the ground. My sword rested in my hand, palm flexing on the hilt, as I stepped forward to another of the green skins, I felt my opponent’s blade scrape along my own as we met in combat and my senses began to process the arena we were to tussle in.

The rest of my party had each engaged one of the Orcs. Withan’s mace was pushing his dance partner around with heavy repetitive blows. Tourai’s crossbow was out and I nearly missed one of his best shots as the first bolt homed in on a battle scarred Orc veteran, before he knew what hit him our roguish youngster took out Scar’s good eye. Caitlin was struggling to hold her assailant off with her quarterstaff but every blow was deflected and she kept tripping the Orc with inconvenient low sweeping maneuvers.

My own fight wasn’t too difficult. But with my mind on what we had learned was under the village green down the hill I felt an urgency that made this delay frustrating. Keeping my temper in check I circled with the Orc tasting the moments allowing the field of battle revolve around me. Even in such a small skirmish the feeling is there. I felt the beat of the drum inside my veins and began to press my attack. Feint and slice, whilst ducking under his blade and rising up with my own, clash against the underside of his arm greaves. His curved blade swings towards me and for a second I lose sight of it over my helmet, my sword raises to block any downward slash but I dive to my right as I read his posture and anticipate his incoming swing.

Rolling onto my feat I see the smug look on his face and rejoin. A fierce volley drives him towards the cave mouth, and I feel the cool air even through my armor. The ground turns soft as we step out onto the rain soaked slope. Battering my sword into him, the green skin flails to block and fails to notice my left arm come round to push him over. His feet slide out from under him and I kick his prone body down the hill. Spinning back into the cave to assist the others.

In time to hear Caitlin calling for help I rush behind her Orc and finding a soft area sink my sword between flaps of armor, forcing a squeal of defeat from his scaly lips. I offer my hand and Caitlin rises to her feet. Tourai has dispatched the two Orcs on the ground and Withan dispatched his own.

“It would appear the only one we didn’t kill was mine.” I confess.

“Not to fear, Dof’r” Withan mocks “We’ll pick yours up on the way. And there’s plenty more when we get there.”

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563 words

Responding to Beatrice

The following is an in character response to Conner's love interest.

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Maybe we all suffer for the sins of our sires. And the mistakes of our siblings. I know that before the embrace I was no innocent. I certainly qualify as one of Father Mason’s pure and worthy. No minor sins were mine. I wronged my fellow man for business and pleasure. I drove people to their deaths, driving boatloads of them into the rocky shores of foreign lands. I made a career out of bankrupting families and businesses.

So I can’t claim any immunity or a lack of culpability, I deserved this curse and I live on still and swindle more than my mortal fair share. This world should have been rid of me many many years ago. But I still haunt the nights. Truly the greatest part of my curse is where I rest my behind. This throne is not one I would have chosen as a seat. I have done my best, and I hope made some improvements, but I am woefully prepared for the responsibility or the power.

The connection between our pains does not cry loud enough to drown out the city or the country beyond. I know the tower screams in your heart, and I know you have concerns for the city, for me I hold you in my heart, beyond that I simply try to hold on to the reins of power long enough to outlast my brother. He cannot be given the throne, I truly hope the family can find a better choice, and hope our sire can be brought back to the throne, and soon.

I know I can’t stay in power much longer, I don’t have the strength, and I have the enemies. I will see this through as far as I can, my landings have always been my best feature, let us see where this fall takes us. This isn’t over yet, and even if your part has been played in the political arena, if your duties are folding and arranging so that you will be distant, even then the rest of us will play out till our own parts also find completion.

I’m not seeking closure, I do not feel the end has come, I know that in my eyes we are only just beginning. Where ever this decent leads me I want to find you nearby. I cannot warrant losing everything else if I also lose your part in my life. Don’t pull away now. It’s just getting interesting.

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411 words

Mothership

The mothership hovers above the Human outpost, it’s fleet mind guiding each of its children, sixteen drone fighters in each wing, and six wings in total into the combat arena. Their metal skins bare against the cold vacuum, naked but ready to face the enemy fire. Each weaving one around another, with the sheer joy at waking fresh and ready to do their duty.

Every nerve ending aligned all synapses wired and ready to control the drone's thrusters and artillery, the children mingle with and open fire upon their opposite number. The human fighters, seeming much more clumsy, are piloted by grown men and women fully trained but still detached from the mechanics of their ships. Their reactions control their own bodies which in turn manipulate artificial controls, an interface that costs them every time they make a decision.

Each of the drones hears the fleet minds thoughts, knows the brothers and sisters around it. Like a tiny glowing candle they can see the pinprick of mental activity in every enemy fighter. The drones swoop through the ebon battle field, more manoeuvrable, smaller and harder to target, more in tune with the chaos of war that surrounds them, and more than a match for any two Terran fighters.

The fleet mind watches as four earth fighters close in on a pack of six drones. The drones rotate in formation like the cylinder in a pistol, seemingly unaware as they press on closer to the outpost ahead. The Terran pilots struggle to keep a hold on their chosen targets as three drones spin to face them and both sides open fire. Driving the earth ships apart the remaining three drones pull out of formation and give chase each after one enemy while the first three simply strafe at the other. With a hail of munitions fire the earth fighters are lost. And these drones break apart and hunt down more enemies.

A sting is felt by the fleet as one of the drones is taken down. Each feels the fleet mind’s sorrow and acknowledges the loss of a brother. The fleet commands and the drones comply; each drone closes and completes its assigned task as the last of the enemy’s fighters are destroyed. The mothership recalls her children and dispatches boarding vessels. Another outpost has fallen, and the wasteful humans aboard it will be harvested. Their protein will feed her children.

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400 words