A Flowing Conversation

From first glance, a water bottle isn't the most interesting thing; neither are it's contents inside. What is so good about water? Besides hydration and electrolytes, it's just another drink in this world. For some avid athletes, paraphernalia. For others, an excuse to wash down salt, or other condiments of that sort. It is amazing that young authors of tomorrow can write about almost anything, such as a water bottle. As the last drips are drunk, the smile appears on the face of a lucky participant, knowing they helped themselves to a serving of hydration.

The Cremation of Sam McGee by R.W. Service

Normally, I would write original pieces of literature, but for now, enjoy this poem about the Yukon Gold Rush by R.W. Service

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Vauge Memories

I remember that old place; that's where I learned to laugh, to love, to cry. I had my first birthday there. Now, it's gone. Nothing but a dirt lot with a "FOR SALE" sign in the front. That old house was wonderful. I remember the day I left him; my friend, my life, my home. For now, I've got to move on; can't let anything hold me back. If I stop going forward with my life, I'm going to lose track of what happens. I drive back there every now and then, to look at that old lot. I sit and socialize with some of the construction workers, tell them I used to live there. They just smile and continue working. The only thing that drives me away from there, was the day my parents left each-other. The world got all up into a hurry; I don't know what happened. It wasn't that way in that old place, then again, nothing was.

A percussionist's view on the drum

The use of the drum, is to coordinate the fluency of one's tempo. All four limbs must be used: the left and right arms, for sound, and use of equipment. The right foot, for the beat-keeping, and the left foot, for constant tempo. The drum player, however, must be like a flowing river, one without an end. When you sit down, behind those cylindrical masterpieces, you are part of the music, the joy, the euphoria. As you go on and on with the wonderful sound that is glory, you realize you cannot stop, like the river within you. You try, but the feeling, too overpowering; too addicting. finally, as the last notes are drummed, you are free, free at last. You get up to walk away, for you shall be back tomorrow.

Red, White, and Blue; the Symbols of the Free

Yes, Patriotism does still matter in the United States. Almost halfway across the world, American men and women are fighting 24/7 around the clock against the Taliban. Not because they were ordered to or because they think they should make something of themselves, but because somewhere in their conscience, there's a part of them saying the have to finish what they started, for us, back home. While they fight over whether terrorism should be allowed in the Middle East, we Americans at home fight over why some aren't patriotic. Patriotism means we respect and honor the ones whom gave their lives, to protect ours.
So please, next time you see a veteran, an active servicemen, or even the flag; salute them, give them a shake of the hand, or just wave. Anything should do it, just show them how much they mean to us, because after all, America was founded on freedom. The tragedies of 9-11 did not destroy us. Crippled us? Sure, temporarily. But that's the American standard: When something tragic or upsetting occurs, we shan't groan and weep, we shall only rebuild, and grow stronger. The minute that first plane was hijacked, Democracy won.

Countdown

There was so much. It’s been like this as long as I can remember. It looked like snow, sure, but we all knew it wasn’t. I bet if I think real hard, I can relive the day. There was a sun, back then. The boy and I went to chop wood.
“Alright, now what you wanna’ know about choppin’ wood, is that it takes muscle, and patience. What you really wanna’ do is get the axe-“, *thud*, “deep into the wood. After that, all you really need to do is shake the axe out, and you got chopped wood.”
“Can I try Dad?”
“It’s all yours”
We chopped wood for about eight hours, no lie. The missus’ called us in for supper. It was Friday, so we had our annual T.V. frozen dinner. Some political show was talkin’ about some ICBMs reaching America. The states had been getting’ in to some trouble with the U.S.S.R. for some time now. They were tryin’ to see who could build more ICBMs. But does it really matter how many of the things a country has, once they have any? The men on T.V. sounded kinda’ worried, like somethin’ was gunna’ happen. They told us Kansas folk to get into our tornado shelters. We grabbed our blankets, our dog, Sparky, and all the food we could carry. We stumbled into the shelter, where we had turned on the crank-powered T.V. There was nary a signal. We heard some kinda’ whisperin’ on the T.V.
*We’re as good as dead. They launched ‘em.They launched ‘em. Pray. Pray for sweet, sweet life.*
The politician broke into tears. They must’ve done it.
“The poor, poor man. Those crazy foreigners, killin’ us like pigs. They must want us, eradicated.”
We sat in the darkness, for longer than a clock can keep track. It makes you worry, what’ll happen next. The smallest noise’ll make you jump. Sittin’ in the dark, with nothin’ but your thoughts. I’ve had some pretty long nights in Kansas, but this must’ve been the longest night of my life, and no one said a word. We awoke the next sunrise. It was cold as the poles. We opened the door.
“Snow!” the boy said.
“Wait. It’s not snow.” I replied.
I picked up a handful. God, it was hot as overcooked food! The land was rich with this substance. Not a building lay in sight. We looked for the SUV, which was nowhere to be found. How can the temperature be cold, but the ash was piercing warm? We traveled down the road to my friend who’s a meteorologist.
His home was demolished. Only the rafters from his basement were dangling in the wine cellar. I remember that old cellar. We used to watch football on Sundays there. We relaxed and dined, with some beer and wine. Those were glory days. Surprisingly, he had a curry bike in the basement. Biking, that was his thing. He was an athletic man, with a behind the desk job. If you don’t get out and about after work, you’re just a sittin’ duck. My wife and I carried the curry up the stairs and set it on the ash-infested soil. The tires wouldn’t budge.
“This is a road curry. Not meant for this kind of land.” I said
My wife broke down into tears. As she bawled non-stop, I helped her up as we slowly stumbled across the vast, barren terrain, with my son following behind. We kept going ‘till we reached the city. There were only a few buildings left, partially damaged. We stumbled up to what I guess was the twelfth floor. Ash and wood fell from the ceiling every now and then.
Now, years later, the sun is gone. All that’s left is a sky full of gray soot. The curry is still at my friend’s house, seeing we go there every now and then. I can’t remember the last time I was happy, it’s simply been too long. All that’s left is the boy and I, my wife committed suicide by gunpoint, with my .44 Revolver. My grandfather gave that to me on his death bed. We only got two bullets left in the thing: one for me, and one for the boy. It’s almost like that one McCarthy story, the uh…”The Road”. Yeah, that’s it. No more for me. I think I’ve had enough. It might be good to just, lie down and rest…for a little…while. How nice it would be, to never have to wake up to this world. If only, if only this wasn’t reality, and I was really some figment of an author’s mind.
“Ha! That would be good.”
I sat there for a while. I sat there for a long time. I was tired. When the boy finds me, he won’t know what to do. “Mankind has to end war, before war ends mankind” J.F.K. once said. It’s been a good couple of years. I’ve earned this haven’t I? I deserve to rest. Yeah, that must be it. I’ll just rest, if only for a little while.
As the wind whispered into the old man’s ears, he drifted off into a never-ending slumber. The story will pan out, with the decrescendo of the wind and soot, blowing amongst the withered Virginian trees.