Atlantic Bridge – 19 – (apologies for the delay!)

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge 18)

The Presse shop, Ambialet

Two more of the incursion force brought the RPG launchers and the grenades themselves up into the bedroom. The other two immediately began to assemble the long tube and tripod in expert fashion.  It took just three minutes to assemble it, calibrate the laser night sighting, and draw a bead on the old monastery looming high on the rock across the river. The man who had been first into the shop touched his communicator. “Commander Bakti, RPG launcher in place and targeted. Awaiting instructions.”
Bakti was down at the Northern end of the bridge with his number 2, checking the approach up to the Monastery via the winding road.
“Leave Akbar with the launcher, the rest of you assemble here by the bridge. We will advance on foot along the road.
“But why not use the Humvee, Commander?  We will be well protected by its Kevlar coating” ventured the soldier.
“Cowardly dog!” spat Bakti, “You think about your own pathetic self-preservation! The Humvee will surely struggle to cope with the switchback road to the target, it will slow us down, make us a vulnerable target. As a foot force, we are many targets, and more manoeuvrable. Some of us may die. That is Allah’s will!”
“Praise be to Allah” mumbled the soldier, chastened.
“Now, tell Akbar to be ready for my signal. Get the men down here now.”
Bakti turned his attention to the Monastery, the lights glowing within its ancient stone walls. The dawn was fast approaching, the first fingers of light teasing the eastern horizon. Today will be a glorious day for us, he thought, the infidels will die for having the temerity to resist the word of Islam. His eyes sparkled with religious zeal. Meanwhile, the four men had assembled behind him. He touched the communicator. “Akbar, fire when ready, four grenades, a minute apart. We should have reached cover by then.”
The last vestiges of the night were ripped asunder as a great plume of smoke and fire erupted from the bedroom window arcing murderously across the river and slamming into the ancient building. A huge explosion rocked its foundations as rubble cascaded down the hillside. A huge pall of dust and smoke began to drift across the town. The houses of Ambialet remained resolutely shuttered, wanting no part of what was being visited upon them.

The five men were already running across the bridge, machine pistols sweeping the area ahead of them. As they reached the other side of the bridge, still on the open road and exposed, another rocket propelled grenade followed the first, this time arcing higher, dropping into the roof from above. The top effectively blew off the Monastery. Ancient beams cracked and gave way, sending their deadly weight down into the chaos below.
The great hall was in disarray. Resistance fighters were running everywhere.
“Henri!” shouted Ben. “We need a location for that grenade! Grab that table!” Henri ran over and they heaved the great oak table over to the wall. They jumped up onto it, smashing the great stained glass window with their weapons.   Ben raised his night sight and scanned the village below. He could see five figures, down in the roadway, they’d obviously crossed the bridge, but they were only carrying machine pistols…he tracked back to the village.
Suddenly, flaring bright green in his night sight, he saw it, streaking towards them, a third RPG!!!! “Incoming!” he screamed.
Henri and Ben leapt down and took cover beneath the table. Marie-Christine and Dryden  leapt into the kitchen and hid beneath the benches. Then it hit. Or more precisely, it entered the gaping hole left by the first grenade, blasted through the ground floor and exploded in the crypt. The world seemed to shift on its axis. Enormous cracks began to appear in the floor of the great hall, and just then, one of the ruined beams came crashing through the ornate ceiling, pinning two fighters to the floor. Trying to ignore their screams, Ben shouted, “Henri! We have to take out that bastard, or we are all dead.”
Henri looked to his compatriots in their suffering. “Merde, you are right.”
They clambered from beneath their hiding place and back up onto the table.
“Henri, it’s the upper window of the Presse just before the tunnel I think. Can you hit it?”
Henri looked at him. “How do you say? Has the Pope got a balcony?” he smiled a thin smile and raised his weapon, poking the barrel through the gap left by the great window.

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 20)

Unicorn

Apologies for my absence but I’m now back at work and both the tiredness and the stress is taking its toll on my creativity… but I thought I’d share this photo I caught yesterday in London. I had one of those tearing-out-of-hair days but all was ultimately OK.

Bubble Boy – 21 -

Bubble Boy - 21 - , by Miki

(Original German Version)

(Bubble Boy – 1 -)     (Bubble Boy – 20 -)

…

… and he ran and ran until most of that oppressive, so unpleasant feeling had vanished. And when he couldn’t run anymore, he stopped and fell asleep on the ground.

But not long after that, he suddenly woke up, even more scared than before. He had had a horrible nightmare: Barbra had appeared to him as a gigantic, naked skeleton who tried to bury him alive into the sand! It’s no wonder that Bub awoke in such a mess, isn’t it?
Scared to death, he rummaged around in his pocket to check if the bottle was still there and the tiny creature still inside of it. Of course the bottle was still there, and Barbra was still a tiny little Witch in her purple gown and green hat! Our Bub had no idea that nightmares are not real, and often only the mirror of our most terrible fears. But well, real or not, the fact is that they can scare the pants off us!
As Bub took the bottle out of his pocket, he was stunned to see that Barbra was really still inside of it, still as tiny and fleshy and clothed as before, and apparently sleeping, He had no idea what it was all about, understood though that things around him seemed to be different when his eyes were closed or open. But he was too exhausted to think further and tried to sleep again.
But he couldn’t anymore… I suppose he was much too scared to meet the giant skeleton again! So he got up and walked all the way back to the crossing.

In the distance he could already see Tiwoo sitting on the pole. She had been so terrified by the bones and the skull in the desert that she had flown directly back to the crossing, without even casting a glance behind her and noticing that Bub had fallen asleep to the ground! But as she saw Bub now, she flew to meet him with hysterical screams of happiness
“Tuwit, Tawoo!”
Bub was quite surprised about such a friendly reception. It was the first time in his life that somebody seemed to enjoy his presence and a warm feeling for the owl invaded his heart.
Well, judging by her reaction to the skull in the desert, I suspect that Tiwoo too had had these kind of bad dreams which scare the pants off one -even though an owl doesn’t wear pants, the feeling is surely all the same- and was simply overjoyed not to be alone anymore!

Now there was only one direction left. This meant that theoretically Bub would find at the end what he was searching for all the time… supposing of course that there was something to find! And what if there was not?  This question slowly and painfully entered his mind, and the feeling connected with it seemed to live very close to all the other feelings of hope and nostalgia he had experienced since he went on this way through Barbra’s Land..
He was struggling in his mind with these kind of thoughts as he noticed, that the air went darker and darker, Not like in all the 3 other directions, where at least some nice light had arisen from behind the horizon or some pleasant smell was hanging around,. Not even the pale moon was to be seen up there in the sky! To tell the truth it had become in the meantime total darkness around him! He started worrying, and feeling very uncomfortable, as he suddenly heard a scream in the distance:
WOO OOH  WOOH WOOH TI WOOH!
A scream which quite sounded like the ones of the owl, but much more mysterious, and somehow they were sounding as if thousands of owls were screaming at the same time!
Bub thought that he couldn’t be right here. More than that: he had the feeling to go always further away from what he was searching for. But he knew too that he had no more choices, now, and well, sometimes in life appearances are misleading, aren’t they? Anyway, Bub decided to go further, somehow he could not accept, or didn’t want to accept, that he had gone all these ways for nothing, and even worse, that this something he was searching for didn’t exist and was only something like the apparition of the giant skeleton, not really real!

Tiwoo in the meanwhile had  become very cheerful and was flying big circles above his head, often flying a big distance away, then flying back,  screaming impatiently all the time as if she wanted to tell him he should hurry up!
But Bub was really not impressed, and in fact he went slower and slower as the screams from the East came closer and closer until he finally stopped. It was not even that he wanted to stop, he just couldn’t go on anymore, as if a mysterious, invisible force was retaining him.
The thing was that horrible figures were standing in front of him, much uglier than the Witch Barbra as she was angry and full of hate. Figures as big and scary as the skeleton of his dream, but these were really there! And they stared at him with so much more hate than even Barbra did as he locked her up into the poison bottle… surely you understand what I mean!

This is why he decided to run back to the castle as fast as possible and never to leave it again!

…

(next instalment on Friday 3rd April 2009)

By Miki

How injured I am

Kev writes: Some time ago, on Cafe Crem, there was a short discussion on the merits, even the relevance of football in our society. Miki and I , being fans of the game and Derby in particular, saw something profound within the game that society as a whole takes from it. There is a great swathe of ordinary folk across the world for whom “the beautiful game” underpins their very existence. It is responsible for their highs, and their lows – each of which are handled with maximum emotion from the heart.  If you look around the net, you will find an image of a football stadium, and overlaid is the legend: “This is my church – this is where I heal my hurts”.  So today, to give some insight into what the game means to the football fan, I have pleasure to present, with the writer’s permission,  a poem about the love of the Rams, Derby County, by a friend from the BBC 606 Football discussion boards, MapRead , entitled:

How Injured I Am

I got myself to the ground
At last, away from the din
Of my chaotic life
Away from the pressures
The stresses and strains
Some space for me found
Where I could be part of a family
Of a group, of a fellowship
All wanting the same result
At last, some space to think
About nothing that invades me
About nothing that pervades me
Or raids my troubled mind
I disappear into the crowd
I talk to strangers, it’s allowed
At last some space to breathe
To escape into my other world
Where I am free to judge
To shout and be angry
To laugh, to cry, to point
To moan, to sit and ponder
Just to watch eleven heroes
Don the jersey I once dreamed
Of wearing proudly myself
Yet it never quite happened
I was neither good, committed
Talented, hardworking or fit enough
The game is great
The space is huge
I breathe easily for an hour
And a half plus stoppage time
How injured I am
With my unfulfilled dreams
Of never being a hero
Never playing the Ram.

MapRead ©2009

Atlantic Bridge – 18 -

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge 17)

Polyflex Industries Biomolecular Culture Shed Number 1

00:03….00:02……00:01…..

The security team that were just about to override the security lockdown outside the airlock were only afforded the privilege of hearing the first enormous explosion, the first of six beats of a terrible tattoo, that obliterated Culture shed number one. It incinerated the building, anyone nearby, and the strangely calm occupant, head bowed, within. An incandescent fireball shot into the night, accompanied by the last of the tremendous explosions, and if Bert Dwyer hadn’t already been on the phone, red-faced with anger receiving news of the sabotage, then it surely would have woken him.

The Bridge at Ambialet

The black Humvee was parked behind a stand of trees. The six men were already out of the vehicle and busy. Bakti and his number two had taken up position by the old stone bridge across the River Tarn. Two men were unloading equipment from the rear of the Humvee, and two were stealthily approaching the Presse at the end of the village.
With practiced ease, the first to the front door produced a small diamond cutter and created a hole in the glass, pulled free with a suction cup. He reached in and undid the deadbolt from the inside. The pair ran inside, and in doing so, activated the old-fashioned tinkling bell above the door.
“The bedroom! Now!” barked the first intruder. The murderous pair rushed through the Paper shop, all caution abandoned, sending racks of magazines and sweets flying. They were halfway up the stairs when the owner appeared on the landing, half-asleep and confused. A small whup sound emanated from the silenced machine pistol, set to single shot, and almost immediately a tiny dark red hole appeared in the forehead of the shopkeeper, his eyes briefly registering surprise before the light faded from them and he fell to the floor. The two men were instantly leaping over his body into the modest bedroom above the shop. The shopkeepers wife, covers pulled up to her chin, gasped in shock as the men appeared. She leapt out of the bed towards the bathroom, taking a single step before three red flowers blossomed in her back.
“Take the bodies to the cellar” said the first intruder. He raised his communicator. “Commander Bakti, RPG position established, send in the hardware.”

Dwyer Residence

“Godammit! I’ve given you my security clearance code, now get Alberstein on the line NOW!!” Bert Dwyer was shaking with rage. What the hell was happening in this country? You couldn’t even take a leak without some goddamn towelhead trying to blow your ass to kingdom come.
“General? Some wiseass has just reduced my Number One Culture shed to ashes. This is gonna seriously impede the project, but you know what? That’s the least of our worries. How the hell did they get wind of this?”
The General let out a long sigh. “Casualties, Ben?”
“Five. All security, and good loyal men, all blown to pieces, except the gate guard, Ted Akerson, he’d been with the company twenty years, Thomas, they shot him in the head.”
“Jesus.” Alberstein ran his hand across his buzz-cut. This was a major worry. Someone close to the project was leaking like an old fishing boat.
“There’s a containment team on the way. I’ve got local law enforcement to cordon the area, but I guess they’re long gone.”
“I’m gonna need protection down at the works, General, I have to build a new shed, we can’t work with less, and if we lose another, we’re in real trouble.”
“Bert, whatever you need, it’s yours. I’ll put Ed Newsome on it right away, he can liase with your people. In the meantime, I need to find out who the hell is blabbing. If we can’t plug this leak, the project’s dead in the water.”
“I’m not sure I like your choice of metaphor, Thomas” replied Dwyer bitterly. “I know I wasn’t the biggest fan of this project and the whole limey co-operation thing, but I gotta tell ya, Thomas, nobody puts Bert Dwyer out of business. Get Newsome to call me at the works. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Alberstein was left holding the receiver, lost in thought. Where to start? Career histories. Everyone that worked in the immediate loop. He needed to go through them with a fine toothcomb. He called his secretary at home.
“Donna? Sorry to wake you. I need you to get on to night shift in personnel. I need classified background files on everyone associated with the Unity Project, and I need it yesterday. Also, when you get into the office, put a request in to the British Government, we’re going to need the same from them.” He replaced the receiver, turned to the red phone that sat on the right of his desk. The Presidential hotline. He envisaged a sleepless night. He picked up the phone. “Mr.President, we have a situation…..”

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 19)

Bubble Boy – 20 -

Bubble Boy - 20 - , by Miki

(Original German Version)

(Bubble Boy – 1 -)     (Bubble Boy – 19 -)

…

But although he knew he was in the wrong place, he couldn’t help continuing to look at the amazing scenery, the play of the waves crowned with  millions of pearls falling at his feet and rolling back again into the sea. And also, far away beyond the horizon, Bub could see a red light in the sky, and again it reminded him of something which filled his heart with nostalgia. It was the second time now that he’d had this kind of weird sensation and he began asking himself what it could be and if it meant something. And he thought that perhaps he would find out, going along the other two paths..

Bub had a last glance at the fantastic scenery and then walked all the way back to the crossing. As he arrived there, he decided to go on without a rest, uncaring of Tiwoo, who was protesting with a great flapping of her wings and loud screams. The owl was not so tired this time, as they had had such a long rest by the sea, and she was hoping to find a way to free Barbra while Bub would sleep. Strangely enough, she started to miss her little Witch, was impatient  to see her miserable face again and hear her awful screams of anger.
Strange, isn’t it, that when we are separated from the persons we love, we soon start to miss even what we most hate in them! Yes, love is such a mystery…

Anyway, she didn’t understand Bub’s sudden zeal, She even started again to think about the possibility of scratching out his eyes. But well, as a wise owl she knew that such an important decision had better be thought on twice, and she decided to wait a little bit longer. To be honest, she hadn’t yet seen everything in Barbra’s land, and well, her longing to see her was still not so deep that it demanded immediate action. Waiting a little bit longer would just make the reunion sweeter, wouldn’t it?
This is why she spread her big wings and flew behind Bub Southwards.

Bub ran and ran and ran… the ground was soft and became softer and softer, so that each step was harder and harder. No wind was blowing anymore and the air was hot and dry. The ground was made out of millions of fine grains, similar to the ones he has seen on the beach. But here it was not pleasant, the tickling under his feet really felt like fire and an oppressive smell was lingering all around.

If you are quite clever and well travelled, you might have understood that Bub was now standing in the middle of the desert. Of course he had no idea what a desert is, but he already knew that he didn’t like it.
“Could this really my way?” he asked himself
But then he suddenly saw a weird plant with thorns, which again  reminded of something, something he believed he had seen somewhere a long time ago. And this something again woke in him a nostalgic feeling like the one he had had before.
This is when Bub suddenly understood one of the most important things in the life of all inhabitants of our big universe: without really being aware of it: he was in search of something!
In case you are wondering what I am speaking about: normal people, grown-ups above all,  with a rather more sophisticated vocabulary and experience than our Bub, call it something like „the search for the sense of existence”, or „the meaning of life’, or  “what the hell I am doing here on Earth?” You surely have heard many of them asking these questions with terribly sad faces, haven’t you? So you exactly know what I mean!

But Bub of course hadn’t a clue about all this philosophical mumbo-jumbo. He just understood that that something he was reminded of all the time was simply what he was searching for. And this is why he hoped, in spite of the heat and the awful smell, that he would find HIS something at the end of this way.
He started to run again, but the sand was so heavy under his feet, heavier and heavier, and he only moved forwards agonisingly slowly.

Even Tiwoo was out of breathe. She was now sitting on Bub’s head, and let him carry her through the desert, screaming and moaning and crying that this was not acceptable and that they should go back.

Only Barbra in her bottle had really nothing to moan about. In fact the liquid around her was quite cool, and finally, exhausted after some nights without sleep she had fallen in a kind of meditative state. Well, this is how she called it always, and how some people call it when they don’t want to admit that they have fallen asleep. A strange habit, isn’t it, when one considers how nice it is to sleep! But I am quite sure that she was sleeping, and perhaps even dreaming of glass balls and bubble boys.

Anyway in the meanwhile, weird things had begun to appear on the ground, things which looked quite scary somehow. Things which strangely reminded Bub of the picture on the poison bottle. And then, suddenly, it was there, exactly the same thing as on the bottle: A SKULL!
And without knowing what a skull really is, Bub found it so scary that he screamed.

And not only HE screamed, Tiwoo too, but of course much louder, as she knew all about skulls. She instantaneously took off from Bub’s head  and flew away back to where they had come from, as if the devil was behind her. And without a thought,  Bub turned around and followed her, running as fast as he could….

…

(next instalment on Thursday 26th March 2009)

By Miki

Ginger tea, and 3 hearts in a pan

When I was pregnant with my second child, nauseous with morning sickness all day long, a relative showed me how to make ginger tea. I’ve been waking in the middle of the night lately, wishing I had fresh ginger root in the house. I’m not pregnant right now, just…busy.

Matthew, my second-born, is 5 years old now. He took some pics of me a few days ago:

I signed up to make a treat for Matthew’s class for St. Patrick’s Day. The room mom sent instructions for a cute cupcake decorated with rainbows made with Airheads candy. Could I pull this off?

I had my doubts, but it worked out in the end.

Sugar, sugar, sugar!

A mom can hardly go wrong when lots of sugar is involved. I used the leftover cake batter to make a few heart cupcakes.

I was excited to finish my Sleeping Fairy jigsaw puzzle yesterday. I started it last fall, but had to put it away to use the table it was on for the kids’ birthday parties, and then the Christmas tree.

I might frame this one for Nicole’s room. It was tougher than I expected. I don’t think I’ll want to put it together again.

I’ve been working on a couple new poems. One of them, Orange Day, is almost ready to post. I still need to work on an image for the other one, Fighting Dragons.

Time for me to get back to work!

Atlantic Bridge – 17 -

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge 16)

American High Command  10pm, EST

“Do you know if they made it?” asked Alberstein of General Lacey.
“I’m afraid its radio silence until we know the outcome of the mission, General” answered Sir George. “I’m sure you understand that the need for secrecy is paramount.”
“Hmph, I don’t hold with all this pussyfootin’ around, Sir George”
complained Alberstein.
“General, we didn’t want to alert the Alkies that we knew that they knew of the location of the Resistance H.Q.” explained Sir George patiently.
“Jesus! It’s like a goddamned John Le Carre novel” shouted Alberstein down the phone. Sir George held the receiver a little further away from his ear. “Believe me Thomas, I know how you Americans are keen on going in gung-ho and shooting up Dodge, but I really feel this has to be handled with kid gloves for the time being. There’ll be plenty of time to shoot everybody later,” he added drily.
Alberstein had a grudging admiration for his British counterpart, but he struggled to keep his natural instincts in check. He’d been harangued in the Senate and the Press for being a warmonger, but he stood by his principles. If it hadn’t been for all those goddamned laissez-faire wolly-assed liberals giving ground over the last few decades, they wouldn’t have to contend with this terrorist shit-storm now. The whole of the Middle East would be a freakin’ ashtray, and everyone could get on a plane or work in a tall building in peace. Nevertheless, the professional soldier in him saw the wisdom in what Sir George was saying.
“George? Do me a favour. Just call me when the team reports mission complete, will ya? And let’s hope to God its good news.”
“Good news for whose God?” answered Sir George, before adding, “Goodnight Thomas, I’ll be in touch.”

Henri got up and strode across the vast hall, clasping Ben firmly by the hand. “Quelle Surprise!” he beamed at Lieutenant Tobias and his men, before his expression darkened. “Your message said ten men…”
Ben Tobias told of the loss of the two men, one dead, one missing.
“I am truly sorry, Monsieur, rest assured that they will be remembered, as your countrymen were before them, in the two great wars. I’m sure you know, since the occupation, the War Graves Commission no longer have access to the Cemeteries of your dead, but the French people continue tend them lovingly, and fiercely protect their memory. It is a matter of honour.”
Ben nodded. “Merci, Henri. Now, let us get to work. I’m sure you have an inkling that your Malachi may have revealed your location to the enemy, just as I’m equally sure that you have a contingency plan. You know this area, I think it best if my men augment and support your own preferred defensive positions. I believe we will still have the element of surprise. With the exception of two men, whom I’d like to station outside the monastery as advance look-outs, my men are at your disposal.”
“Bon,“ said Henri  “but first, we eat!”

Polyflex Industries Biomolecular Culture Shed Number 1

The dark shape left the sanctuary of the shadows and ran in a low crouch across the compound. Just beyond the huge steel entrance gate, a pool of light from the security flood illuminated the beginnings of a river of blood, spilling from the fatal head wound of the gate guard, lying prone in the darkness.  The running man never looked back. Reaching the airlock door of the culture shed, he inserted a magnetic card attached to a decoder. A small red glowing panel on the decoder showed the microcomputer processing thousands of combinations, until, abruptly, the display turned to green and the airlock opened with a whoosh. The man slipped inside, closing the outer door and adjusting the pressure correctly so as not to trip the alarms. He replaced his silenced H & K, still warm, in the holster in the small of his back, and took out half a dozen packs of what looked like kiddies plasticine from a small holdall.
Each had a small digital timer attached, and a peel-off base. The man stared down the length of the vast, two kilometre shed. A narrow walkway stretched out ahead of him, and to his right, the giant roadway section, incomplete, raised up on an enormous endless metal workbench and under strange lighting, growing silently.
The man discarded the holdall, peeled the backing from the base of the packs, and hooked them onto his belt. He began jogging along the walkway, every three hundred metres or so, in a fluid motion he would whip a pack from his belt, set the timer and expertly stick it beneath the workbench. He reached the end of the culture shed, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, but breathing steadily, surveying his handiwork. He smiled thinly, and set off at a sprint back to the airlock. He was about twenty metres from the door when the alarms sounded all over the compound. Someone had found the body. He willed himself to run faster. He heard the airlock double click as he slammed into the door. Retrieving the card and decoder, he re-entered the access code. The light remained a continuous, mocking red. The man let out a long slow breath. He removed his black lightweight leather jacket, and folded it purposefully, neatly, placing it on the walkway. He sat, cross legged, bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Allah’s will” he said, as the first of the timers counted down the final seconds…
00:03….00:02……00:01…..

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 18)

Loneliness for 2

In case you worry: no, it’s not us!

I was just about to wash up the glass as I saw this scene…

And to see how this love story ends go to

“Together again!”

…………………………………………..

By Miki

From Victoria…

Susan, I hope your day is full of surprises and happy moments to treasure.

All my best wishes for the best year of your life – ever!

This was taken a few years ago at our Inner Harbour here in Victoria. I wanted the flowers more than the Parliament Buildings, so this is a very low perspective.

Hope you like it!