Ageotas

The was no reveille this morning. No bugle. No morning run. Instead, I sit in this leaky boat, no bigger than to hold 18 men uncomfortably, towing behind the bigger ships of the incursion fleet. Blasted things are made of wood, no more than an oversized canoe. Seargent says this is it. This is our chance to prove ourselves as Aussies, as "contributional soldiers to this great war". But when I look at Sarge, I don't see it. He's just me mate, another bloke like any of us. And he's scared as chicken shit, just like us. Damned water is choppy as the tea in a broads cup, the Poms back at division said this would get better as we got nearer th

I wandered down into the valley again today. Not far, I never go as far as Jason would. He always went for walks in the morning, farther and farther. He would come back and tell us of the things he saw. He always did have a way with words, we could see the sights as vividly as if we were there oureselves. Sometimes, some of the others would go with Jason on his walks, but none would go by themselves. With Jason they felt safe. Everyone was afraid of the glow in the east, but none of us knew what it was. It was there every night, just like the night before it. It never got brighter, and it never got weaker. It was as constant as the sun rising

Looking around the room, the patrons are like those at any other tavern. There are those at the bar, nursing their drinks with mournful looks, desperate to forget, just for one night. There are those in the corners, shrouded in shadow and the haze of their smoke, furtive looks from beneath their cowls betraying their intentions. Some patrons, as you would expect to find at any drinking institution, dance merrily to the music in their own heads, half drunk pints of ale swing in circles as they twirl and weave between amused onlookers. Others still, mingle in small groups, sharing stories and tall tales to make others laugh. The ladies of the e

Cold. Never ending stretches of dark, cold, empty. Oh, there are stars, yes, points of light millions upon millions of kilometers away. But in between, there is nothing but the empty coldness of space. A vacuum. A void. Alone. Already the tendrils of light begin to flicker in front of my eyes. Not because thats what they do, they don't. I know they dont. Its the atmosphere that makes them flicker, makes them twinkle... ...Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, How I Wonder What You Are... Of course, that's just an illusion, isn't it. There is no atmosphere above me, none that extends beyond the auro-plated stretch of glass in front of my eyes. And e

She is beautiful, she really is. I see her here most evenings now, like routine. No, more like a recurring dream. Routine for me has always been tedious, but there is nothing I find tedious about this. It is the same every time. I sit at the bar, nursing my drink and scribble away in my notebook, scetching ideas, concepts, passages of text, whatever comes to mind. I take them home later on and use them for inspiration. The second round comes, and there she is, across the room at a small table seated for two. It is the same table, every time, and each time, it is set with a rose and a candle. She drinks red wine, a '99 vintage BIN 389, not the