Thursday, December 1, 2016

On the Steps of Federal Hall, from THE ANARCHIST'S GIRLFRIEND, debut 12/11

On the Steps of Federal Hall, from the event 12/8 at Dixon
Place Lounge. 

Pelekinesis publishes 12/10. This New Edition has significant new material at 
or at
and Amazon.  Amazon, however takes 60% of any sale,so if possible, do consider direct from publisher. Writers need great small presses. And thanks for your support. Also this New Edition is not a reprint, it is redited, has new material. So, though cheap early version is offered, it's not the same.
reply | edit | delete | flag *

 The root of the matter was that he MUST stop the Anarchist, for the sake of the affection he bore him, for the AG, and for that odd sentiment--patriotism. The figurehead might be the most he recollected from grade school but he had to save it-- the mystique of heritage. What else was left of the elementary facts?

Who was Washington? A farmer, a politician, a soldier, a statesman? A spirit of egalitarianism, maybe? Wayne knew he had no idea who George Washington was, though he had a clear idea of the Anarchist, who was trying to destroy the symbol of revolution in himself. A self- effacement ritual to end his rebellious struggles to come to terms with his world, obliterate the contradictions his life?

Wayne believed in contradictions. In a wave of epiphany, which went with the sunrise, he realized he believed in contradictions in nature, in national consciousness, in individual personalities. He might not understand how the full circle of seeming contradictions meshed in life, but it no longer mattered. He had a sense of the wholeness of the world and would stop the Anarchist for love and life.

Walking down Wall Street, the Anarchist perceived the gray-rose light as that of a shooting squad on an execution morning, not unlike the one he had been exiled in on a boat so long ago. It was again a morning of nemesis.
He could almost imagine the mean goddess taunting him with his extravagant pride, fate and punishment. She held out a strong drink, a cup of megawatts travelling at the speed of light. The Anarchist shook off the doomful vision. The laser WAS necessary for political, not personal reasons. He didn't have much time left to execute it, either.

Within the dull black bazooka lay the bright ruby rod surrounded by reflectors. Wayne had helped the Anarchist empower the rod with the flash lamp the night before. Even through the optical company shades, he had been impressed with the coiled lamp. The rod within it glowed and pulsed with energy. But how was it to be regulated? The Anarchist wasn't sure if the alternating device would work evenly or at all. It was to control the force and direction of the laser waves but was so crude Wayne couldn’t imagine the rudder-like device would register such minute shifts.

"Move the tripod closer to the statue and steady it,” the Anarchist ordered. Wayne stood the tripod within a few feet of Washington and rested it on a parallel step. The Anarchist hoisted the bazooka onto a horizontal position on top of it. He opened the box from Plainsville, New York and ceremoniously handed Wayne his goggles. Wayne looked as if they were alien items. WHY BOTHER? (It won't work he wanted to say.)

"Wayne, put them on!” the Anarchist excited insisted, placing the elastic band around Wayne's head. ''We haven't a moment, ya know!”