Title: Memoirs of a Space Corsair - Captivity Part Two - Induction
Author: Jonathan L. Lawrence (Sage on this blog)
Genre: Science fiction
Word Count: 7,863
Warnings/Spoilers: There is violence, foul language, and conditions of torture that may be uncomfortable for some
Credits: Everyone who reads my blog, and has put up with my failed promises of writing, and those following me on Twitter that put up with my Tweets as I was writing and editing this.
Disclaimer: This is entirely an original story, all copyright to this works, and associated works with these characters, and the universe I have created belong to my (Jonathan L. Lawrence), and me alone. I do not sanction the use of my ideas anywhere else, other than for linking back to source, and fair use. Please go here to learn more about copyright: Copyright Service

Summary: This is the second instalment in a regular series I am trying to create, set some five hundred years in the futures, it follows the trial and tribulations of one man as he tries to survive in a hostile galaxy. In the process, he will become a famous pirate with a cause, a corsair. However, we’re not there yet, first we must learn where our intrepid anti-hero comes from, this second chapter follows on directly from the events of the first, after being captured by an unknown party from the Reina del Mar, a luxury liner, and seeing many of his friends die, or be maimed, he know must traverse a new reality, and find the steel within himself to be who he must be to survive. The third chapter in this tale will be forthcoming, however enjoy the second chapter. If you've not read the first chapter, it can be found here.

"What was that?" he exclaimed.

"What?" I asked, only realising the jolt had happened after I responded.

"I felt it," Garth said, "The whole room bumped."

"What do you think it was?" Tim asked.

None of us knew, but we hoped it was the start of the end of our captivity.  Whatever it was, for the first time since we had been locked up, it was a change to our situation not of our own making. We had been in our cell for weeks, during that time we had seen neither sight nor sound of anyone else, but the four of us here. We had been captured on the Reina del Mar, a luxury space cruiser, where we each of the four were labourers. With me were Chris (a good friend), and two others, Tim and Garth, who I wasn't that well acquainted with. I think, had things worked out differently, all four of us would have had a bond for life having shared the same hell.

If we thought that jolt was somehow exciting, half an hour later we practically jibbering hens as sirens went off.

"What is it?" we asked in various forms, as if more information would be revealed by repeatedly asking.

The siren paid us no heed though, it just kept going. It was a klaxon noise, a high pitched noise, followed two lower pitch noises.

It was Garth who recognised it first.

"It’s a docking alarm," Garth said, feeling a bit of confidence from how we suddenly all gathered round him, he was now the centre of our group, the man with the information.

"Go on," we urged him.

"Well back on the Reina del Mar, I do some work in the cargo hold when we docked at stations. That sounds like the buzzer that was used when the cargo doors opened," he said proudly informing us. "We must have docked," he added.

"Wonder where we are?" Chris asked.

Garth just shrugged, he had given us all the information we had. It didn't stop us speculating, and for the next hour, in fact that’s all we did.

Our theories ranged from the rescue we all hoped for by one of the major navies of this area of space, to the less certain prospect of one pirate ship in battle with another, that was now being boarded.

We had no real ideas, until there was another jolt, this one was much heavier, and definitely involved our area of the ship. We had the sensation of being moved, (something you don't really feel on a ship, due to the inertial dampeners in place, and the gravity plating commonly employed on large ships), with the occasional sudden jolt. We were sent careening across the room one time at a sudden sharp jolt.

After that there was nothing, even the sound of the klaxon was replaced by silence. By now were tired, smelly, dirty, bruised, battered and hungry, Garth had a nose bleed from when he fell. We were completely miserable and would have done anything to escape - only there was absolutely nothing left to do, but wait.

As it was, we only had to wait an hour (as far as I could estimate), before there was activity once more. This time noises came from the door, a stiff cranking sound, followed by a hiss of depressurisation.

We all sat bat up right, staring at the door like an animal caught in the path of a ground car, the door opened slowly. There was a bright light outside, but we could see the silhouettes of two men stood in the door way.

"We got four more," a muffled voice cried out in English.

We didn't know if this was better or worse than our situation so far, we didn't care we all made to get up.

"Stay there, all of you," the voice said his hand held palm out, and then the two men stepped back and shut the door.

"What the hell is going on?" Tim exclaimed loudly. Garth ran to the door trying to push it, but it was already too late, the door was shut, and there was a hissing sound as it sealed.

We all gathered to discuss what had happened, we weren't alone anymore, there was someone out there - we just didn't know who or what they wanted.

We spent another night in the cell, or what passed for night anyway, before the door was opened again. We awoke with a start as the clanking came from the door. We gathered at the opposite end of the cell, deciding it was better to be a united front far from the door.

The light outside was bright again, but this time there was only one silhouette in the door.

He pointed towards us, "All of you step outside now," he said his voice thick with authority, despite the mask he wore.

We slowly stepped forward, somehow I ended up in the lead of the group as we stepped towards the door. The masked man stepped back, and slowly exited the cell into the bright light, after so long in the constantly dull lit cell, the light hurt our eyes, and we all winced, barely able to see anything, but eager to after the drab grey walls that had been our only view other than each other and faecal matter.

I was shoved roughly back towards a wall, and instinctively knew I was to stay there, the others were pushed next to me, in a line.

"By Gods we have some smelly ones, I've seen mutant swamp rats of Ogle more hygienic then these fucks," a voice from further back in the light shouted, his accent thick, but unrecognisable to me. As my eyes adjusted, I saw he was glad in a black chemical suit, like the man who had brought us out of the room, he wore a similar mask too.

"Yeah well, let’s get'em cleaned up, they're no good to us like this," the first man said. He took several steps back away from us, we looked at each other uncertainly.

"Fire in the hole!" the man with the strange accent shouted excitedly. Suddenly a powerful stream of water hit us, full force pushing us back against the wall behind us. It was freezing cold, and I tried to avoid it, but the spray followed me, sending me sprawling, and pinning me against the wall still.

It was a brutal experience, and we were cold and sore afterwards, yet at the same time I was kind of grateful, it was the first time in a long time I wasn't covered in our own faecal matter. Small pleasures, as I have learned, are massive when there is no pleasure to be had.

"Right," the first man said, his voice a more recognisable Anglo one, I guessed he was from the Orion sector, having heard a similar accent from a trader near where I grew up. "He threw bags at us," and pointed at them, "Put those on."

We opened up the bags in front of us, inside there was some grey overalls, we eagerly stripped, and put on the fresh clothing, even though we were still wet from the water blast, it was an amazing comfort to be wearing clean clothing. I was starting to feel a bit more human, the hunger gnawing at me took a back seat for a little while, and the tiredness seemed to stay at bay.

None of us had said anything yet, all of us were silenced by a mix of fear and wonderment at all this going on. I knew we should say something, ask something, so I stepped forward, nervously.

"Excuse me," I said on the third time of trying to get noise to leave my throat, "W-Where are we?" I finally managed to ask.

The mask turned towards me, I could see his eyes, through the mask, they were the brightest blue I had ever seen, and they were cold, and impassionate.

"Move back to the others," his muffled voice commanded, and I felt I had no choice but to do as I was told.

We were walking from an immense room, I looked back at where we were coming from, and it was like a huge block of metal. My mind tried to process what was going on, but to no avail - the block of metal did not seem like a ship in its own right, besides the doors had opened straight into this huge area, (which in my inexperienced wisdom I took to being too large for a ship), so all I could imagine was our prison had been moved from ship to this cavernous room.

It was easily ninety feet high, metal was everyone, storage crates were in constant motion along beams of metal stretching as far as I could see. Glow orbs floated about here and there giving scant illumination to this huge space which seemed to absorb light like a starving man ate bread.

We were walked for at least twenty minutes, until we came to a squat building, about eight feet high, and at least thirty feet across, there were two large doors, easily ten feet long each, and a smaller door in between the two. I believed it to be a lift of some sort, and was proved correct as the doors opened by a click of a device in the blue eyed man’s hand.

The other man shoved the group of us forward, pushing on the two at the rear. I went into the lift with a very rational fear, our troubles started last time we were in a lift.

I doubt it is the manly thing to do, to admit fear, but in mitigation I was just X years old, I think,  inexperienced in space, but for a few months as a labourer, captured and tortured worse than any I prisoner I had ever heard of at that point in my life.

Once the lift doors closed, we stood in silence, I don't remember what floor the blue eyed man press, but we were moving upwards, and it was either very slow, or very far. I couldn't tell.

We reached our destination, with a shudder, it was a mechanical lift utilising heavy pulleys and weights, rather than the pneumatic system aboard much of our star liner. This place we were in had to be pretty old, though the lift itself looked remarkably in decent order.

Once the doors opened, we were ushered out into a large corridor that got wider, splitting into a v at the end.

"Right, you boys, you walked down there," the blue eyed man said pointing, "Don't run, don't make a noise, don't misbehave," he stated almost as if talking to children.

We didn't say a word, and followed the instructions, somehow it seemed better than the alternative, though the blue eyed man had never given an "or else", to let us know what punishment we faced.

As we walked past the splitting wall, the corridor angled to the left, behind us there was a whoosh sound as a glass panel descended from the roof. We looked back, each of us noting it with the awful recognition of recent experience. We mulled around in front of the glass partition, for a few moments until the second of the two men who had been with us since leaving our cell, ran up and kicked at the glass. We quickly ran forward, in fear.

"What's going on?" Chris cried out as we ran down the corridor, "What are we doing here?"

“Just move,” I said prodding him on, though I’d slowed to walking pace, he had stopped.

“I don’t like this,” he said walking alongside me.

“I can’t think why,” tired and afraid I resorted to sarcasm, it was, and still is one of my many vices. It shut Chris up, I wanted to say sorry, but I didn’t, we just followed the corridor. The corridor changed direction into a new corridor, the walls here were grey, and doors lined either side. We could see down to the end of a corridor, we stopped, confused.

“Look,” I said, pointing further down the corridor, “That door’s open.” I started off towards it, somehow the fear had left me, and as I set off, the rest of the group followed me.

I stopped at the door and looked in, inside were nine bunks, stacked in lots of three. Inside were already four people, I entered.

“Oh my,” said one of the incumbents, “Newbies.”

Everyone behind me stopped, suddenly wary of new people, especially the man that talked. Everyone else in the room was roughly my age, give or take a few years, the man though looked to be in his thirties. He wore dark overalls, compared with whites and greys that we wore, and the three other boys in the room.

I walked right up to him, I think by this point I had completely run out of fear, I held out my hand, “My name’s Arsène.”

“Well, Arsène, my names Peter,” he said gripping mine. “Welcome aboard the good station Dangaus Atstumas.”

“The what?” I asked, this wasn’t a language I was familiar with. While Peter and I were talking, the others of my group entered the room. As the last one entered, the door slammed down. I spun around.

“Don’t mind that,” Peter said warmly, “Just security making sure we don’t go roaming. They don’t like having to tenderise the merchandise,” he added.

“The what?” I asked for the second time in a minute.

“You boys no idea whats going on?” Peter asked, he gestured to the empty bunks.

“No, sir,” Chris behind me said. I approached the nearest empty bunk to Peter and sat down.

“We’ve just got here,” I said, hiding the origin of our arrival. Even at that age, in the situation I found myself in, I realised information was power, and a commodity to be carefully traded.

“Well, you boys be on the Dangaus Atstumas, it’s in the Lithuanian quarter Horologium system,” he said. “It’s not a good place for boys to be,” he said sombrely. The other boys that had been with him when we arrived were shaking their heads.

“Can’t be any worse than the hell we’ve already been through,” Garth stated.

“Well that depends,” one of the boys that had been here when we arrived said. He was quite lanky, I guessed he was a couple of years beyond my fifteen, he had sandy hair, shoulder length, though it could have been longer it was well knotted as if not cared for. “You could end up anywhere, with anyone, you hear stories, you know?” he asked redundantly, because we genuinely didn’t know.

“Don’t be frightening the poor boys,” Peter said chastising the boy.

“They oughtta know,” the boy said.

“Aye, that they do –but let me tell them,” Peter said sternly.

“Well gid on wit it,” another boy said from the bunk above Peter.

“Forgive the boys, we been here a while now, they’re a bit impatient, and though not a one will admit it, a bit afraid,” Peter said, glancing at the one above.

The sandy haired boy scoffed.

“First of all, I guess we should introduce ourselves,” Peter said, gesturing to the four original boys. “As I said, my name’s Peter, Peter Bickle, Earth born,” he said ‘Earth born’ with the scent of pride all Earth born said. It’s not so common these days, but back then, it was somehow fashionable to Earth born, celebrities, politicians would make a move to the Earth briefly so their child could have a dual nationality birth certificate, especially those from French systems, since Earth was in French controlled space.

Peter tapped the bunk above him, gesturing to the boy who had told him to get on with it, I guessed him to be about my age, though he was relatively short for his age. “I’m Connor Wilde,” he said, then added, “Of Caelum.” I had heard of Caelum, it was a called a nationless system, because no particular nationality had colonised it, it had offshoot colonies and space stations of most of the major, and some of the minor nations.

The sandy haired boy spoke next, “Charlie Desnos, of Epsilon Eridani c,” I definitely knew of Epsilon Eridani c, it was my home planet, back before I’d taken off as a labourer with a cruise ship.

I smiled at him, “I’m from Epsilon Eridani c too,” I said.

“Northern hemisphere?” he asked, and then continued before I could answer, “I’m from the south, though my parents were from Triomphe in the north.” That explained why he didn’t have a French accent. Most of Epsilon Eridani was French, though on my own planet, a large chunk of the southern hemisphere was home to Anglo-Saxon colonies.

“Yeah, I’m from the north, Pôle Nord,” I said answering his earlier question.

“Cool,” he said.

The last of the original boys was sat on the top bunk of the three that Peter was sat on, he looked down but didn’t speak. I felt he was younger than me, yet at least my height, he was quite solidly built, but his eyes looked like those of a child’s, frightened yet naive.

Peter caught my glance, “That’s Terry, he doesn’t say much, well actually he doesn’t say anything,” he said as way of explanation.

“How do you know his name?” Garth asked.

“We don’t, I named him, figure if a guy can’t have anything else, he should at least have a name,” Peter said with a warm smile.

“Well, guess it’s our turn,” I said gesturing to the others of our group, “I’m Arsène Frassin, of Epsilon Eridani c,” I nodded my head towards Charlie Desnos.

“I’m Chris Garland,” Chris said sitting up a bit straighter, “From Gordman Station in the Alpha Leporis system.”

Garth spoke up next, “I’m Garth Bruch,  from Epsilon Eridani b.”

“I’m Tim Murail, also of Epsilon Eridani b,” Tim stated.

“Well plenty of you Epsilon boys,” Peter said.

“Seems so,” I responded, then I got serious. “Now tell us whats happening here,” it wasn’t a question.

“Well,” Peter said, stalling now, he seemed to rally though, “Listen, we’re a friendly sort. We’ve all been in this room for at least a month now. We’ve also been round this system a bit. If you’re as new as you seem, whats to come is really bad news.”

“Like Chris said, we’ve already been through hell, while you’ve been enjoying the comforts of this clean room, we’ve spent weeks covered in piss and shit, we’ve had nothing but the very basic sustenance, and that ended up mixed in with the piss and shit. We didn’t have bunks, didn’t have anything but shit covered floor. We didn’t even get a window, like you have in the door there,” I said exploding, annoyed at having not got answers from people that obviously had them.

“Hey, calm down, I’m,” he glanced back at the others who were sat stone faced, “We’re just worried about you. This isn’t the easiest of lives, we’re all prisoners here, waiting slavery.”

“Slavery?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, there are three main trades on Dangaus Atstumas, drugs, banks, and slavery. So yes, you are now all slaves, slaves waiting masters,” Peter said solemnly.

I sank back in to the thin mattress of my bunk. I had no words, but in all honesty, at the time it didn’t seem all that bad compared with what we’d been through.

“So what does that mean?” Garth asked.

“It means, no one knows where we’ll end up,”  Charlie said. “It means whatever you’ve already been through, could be heaven compared with where you’ll end up.”

“I doubt that,” Chris said, over the years I’ve known Chris to be a twisted optimist, as far as he was concerned whatever came next would be better than what came before, and if something were worse, it wouldn’t count, it was just a reset of the bar. I came to admire that philosophy when times got tough, but back then it kind of grated on me.

“Right,” I said sitting up again, “Right now it’s an unknown,” settling the matter. “I, I guess none of us, know much about slavery,” I saw Connor’s eyes light up, I sized him up to be a sarcastic bully, so I immediately cut off whatever sniping comment he was preparing to say, “Other than obviously it’s a life of servitude to some kind of owner.”

“Yeah, it’s that, slaves are owned, you could be bought to clean out the sewers of a vast city on one of the terraformed worlds, pretty much worse conditions than your transit, or you could be servants to some rich businessman, ruler, or celebrity. That would be your lucky outcome. You could end up servicing a ship, that would most likely be unfortunate,” Peter said, with a sigh.

“Why would servicing a ship by unfortunate?” Tim asked, naively. I wasn’t exactly the most experienced man in space, I had so far only been on two ships. However, I had heard stories back in my home town, whose main function was as a port, about conditions on ships travelling space. It was said some pirates would take young boys, just to use them as objects of lust – most ships of the type didn’t allow women aboard. I realised just how bad a life as a slave things could become.

No one answered Tim, and the silence told him all he needed to know, or enough anyway, his face went bright red.

“So yeah, not good news. I’m sorry,” Peter said with genuine feeling in his voice, as he broke the silence. The silence however immediately fought its way back, and we spent the next few minutes in silent consolation.

“So what happens now?” I finally asked, I’m not sure how long had passed, but I felt the silence was beginning to crush me.

“Well, we enjoy what we’ve got,” Charlie said. “We have a clean rooms, they come in once a week and clean them out, let us walk the corridors a bit, providing we don’t misbehave. Give us clean uniforms to get into, after they’ve washed us down. We get fed twice a day, and while it’s hardly pièces montèes, but it’ll keep you going.”

“Why?” I asked, after the way we had been treated getting here, and what we feared to come, this was living like princes.

“A clean, healthy slave sells better,” Connor said, with venom in his voice. It wasn’t aimed at us, it was aimed at the situation, I guessed.

“How did you all come to be here?”

“Pirates,” Charlie said, his face lost all cheer, obviously memories played through his mind, and they weren’t happy ones. After a few moments of contemplation, he continued, “Was travelling out from C with my family, Dad had just a got a job with the TransLat manufacturing company, and needed to spend a year at their headquarters, so we were all going. We only had a small craft, wasn’t much for the pirates to scoop us up. Separate us out. Kill my father, and then sell me to here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t know what happened to my mum, and our two sisters,” he said sombrely.

“Might be best,” Peter said, which seemed to me a ludicrous thing to say, but I held my tongue, by virtue of age, I guess we all accepted Peter was the leader.

“I was sold,” Connor said, there was a lot of anger as he spoke, but he didn’t elaborate further.

“No one knows about Terry,” Peter said, “As for me self, I’m here as forfeit for some unfortunate debts.”

“Unfortunate debts?” I asked.

“Well, you know how it is,” he said, then he looked at us, “Well guess nice clean kids like you probably don’t. Got  into gambling, never really got out – then folks call in your markers, and when you can’t pay – you either end up in little bits, or they sell you to slavers, to recoup some of the costs,” he said matter of factly, then added “Of course sometimes they do both,” he said holding up his left hand, his index finger was missing at the knuckle.

“What about you boys?” Charlie asked.

“Well, we were labourers on a space liner, I guess we got hit by pirates. We didn’t know much of what was happening, we got captured by a guy who shot any Hispanics with us, us four made a break for it, were captured and left in the filthy room for maybe a month. Before arriving here,” I said, as succinctly as I could.

“I’ve heard worse,” Connor said vehemently.

“The month in that room, there was nothing worse,” Chris said assertively. “Every day, on our own, no contact with anyone, the only food feed through a tube into a trough. Some kind of paste. No sanitisation – by the end most of the shit and piss we sat in, slept in was our own.”

“Hey, still heard worse,” Connor said combatively. “And hey, if you feel the need to relieve yourselves, there’s a tube there – save you shitting yourselves like apes,” he added vehemently.

All four of us labourers rose, Chris took a step forward, his hands in tight fists, I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to pull him back.

“Boys, boys,” Peter said standing up, holding his arms out, making sure it was visible that he was blocking the room, separating the boys. “Let’s not be fighting among ourselves, no way to spend however long we’ve got together.”

I succeeded in pulling Chris back to a bunk, but his eyes were flaming coals, their burn was aimed straight at Connor. Connor glared back, with equal heat.

“Listen, they’ll be round with food soon – let’s just make it through a meal, and see what happens after,” Charlie said.

Peter returned to his bunk.

“Okay,” I said.

We spent the first few days trying to remain in our groups, four to each group, those who had been aboard Reina del Mar, and those who had been in the room when we arrived. We would all come together for meals, though we careful to keep Connor and Chris separate. For their part, if the violence wasn’t so certain between the two of them, I would say they both needed enemy as something to focus on.

The meals themselves were brought to us on trays, usually there was some sort of meat, and  an assortment of veg. Basic stuff, but actually decent fare compared with the slop we were used to. The food was brought by two men in masks, it was usually the two that had cleaned us and brought us here from our first cell.

Peter explained some of the nature of the world we found ourselves in, the reason we were in such a decent room, and kept clean was as Connor had stated, to keep us healthy so we would sell better, we were also in quarantine, so that if we carried any diseases, it would only affect a small number of slaves. Diseases were rife in the sealed communities of space, and any disease could wipe out large numbers of people quickly. A slaver would be held accountable by those he sold to, or communities ravaged by plagues carried by slavers, if their slaves were responsible.

Slavery was, and still is, legal and acceptable by a large number of colonies and stations across the colonised galaxy, though all slaves had to sign themselves into slavery, as a matter of formality. We would be expected to sign such documents when we came to be sold, we wouldn’t be given a choice, sign or die.

Our slavers, though they may seem decent for the relative comforts we were provided, were by no means tender-hearted, this was just the way they conducted stock prior to selling.

As days turned into weeks, we lost the separation of the groups, as we came to know each other, we shared stories of our lives, talked of our hopes and dreams, ignoring the realities of where we found ourselves.

Charlie for example, had planned on studying to be a doctor, which I think would have suited him. To my mind, at the time he was the smartest of our group.

Connor eventually let slip more of his story, it turned out he had been sold by his father, after his mother had died. His father had turned to drink, and gambling, and to pay off his debts, he had sold his youngest son. Connor also told me, if he ever got the chance he would slit his father’s throat for the betrayal, and probably his brother, though he hadn’t decided. I could appreciate his anger, I felt similar anger for the brute that had taken us, and killed the Hispanics in our groups.

Peter was a decent sort, but I must admit, I did have my doubts about him, something just didn’t seem right. It was clear to me, that the young and old, male and female were kept separately in the slaving quarters aboard the station, so why was Peter, a thirty eight year old man, kept with teenage boys.

Over the time, Peter also coaxed us into revealing more about ourselves, our lives, what education and skills we had. We were a diverse group.

Tim was actually hoping to become an engineer, and had already spent most of his teenage years studying, he had taken up as a labourer purely to gain experience in space. He had studied at Eridani b’s engineering school for two years, his sole aim was to maintain and tune the great engines aboard a cruise liner. He knew the names of all the major ships touring the quadrant Epsilon Eridani was in.

Garth wasn’t nearly as ambitious, he just wanted to make a decent living, he came from a pretty poor section of Eridani b (which in my snobbish prejudice assumed that was most of it), and his family had spent most of their savings to send him across to Eridani c, so he could seek employment with a space liner. They considered it his best chance of making something of himself. Garth, I knew from our time on the Reina del Mar was adept at purchasing things, and selling them on for profit. A skill Peter encouraged, trading among slaves was just about the only way to find the scant comforts that were available. He warned Garth to be discrete though, lest he be made an example of.

Chris, like me, just wanted to work aboard ships, each of us dreamed of being captains of ships. It was fanciful, and daft, but we were both well educated, Chris was good with computers, my own skill lay in languages, and mathematics.

Connor didn’t really much care, his only goal was to survive long enough to have his revenge. He spent much of his free time working out, he was by far the fittest of us. If anyone joined him in exercising to pass the time, it quickly turned into a competition – a competition that no one else could win. There was a fire to Connor that drove him further than of us could hope to match.

As I mentioned, Charlie hoped to be a doctor, though he only had first aider training, Peter assured him that even basic medical knowledge would be a boon in the lives before us.

Peter never let slip much more about himself, when we inquired whether he had a family, or what kind of gambling games he’d played (in the hopes of him teaching us something to get out of the boredom), he would always change the subject.

My unease at Peter’s inclusion in our group grew, though I didn’t really define that feeling until we had been there nearly a month. We were being taken out of our room to be cleaned, which involved basins, and cloths and us washing ourselves (no such torture as when we had first arrived). I hadn’t really paid much attention, but Peter would always wash off to one side, near one of the masked men.

The fourth time we were to wash, I manoeuvred to be nearer to Peter, I couldn’t hear the conversation, there was too much noise from the over six enjoying themselves getting a wash to hear – but I felt for sure the two men, Peter and one of our keepers were talking together.

I seethed with the knowledge, I knew from the experience these masked men never indulged in conversation with us slaves, something had to be different about Peter. I bottled up the knowledge, and carried on washing. After our wash, as was normal we were allowed to have a walk down the corridors as the bedding was gathered from our bunks. When we got back, the men were standing outside, as normal, we re-entered the room, and the door closed behind us. We set about making our bunks with the fresh sheets we had been left. We already had fresh overalls from after we were cleaned.

A few hours later, the food was brought to us, and as we set about our traditional gathering, I decided to act upon the knowledge I gained.

“So Peter,” I said between mouthfuls of some unidentifiable grey meat, “What games got you into trouble?”

“Oh the usual,” he answered, “What kind of ship did you fancy being captain of one day?” he asked, his usual response to a personal question was to enquire about something of ourselves.

I was having none of it, “What about your family? What’s happened to them with you being sold to slavery?” I asked making no attempt to hide the fire in my voice. I had stopped eating, so had the others. They had picked up on something in what I was doing, and whether they shared my concerns or not, they were seeing how this went.

“Well families make do,” Peter said, caught off guard by the interrogation, his answers were halting.

“So you have a family?” I immediately asked.

“Well, that’s kind of a sore…”

I cut him off, “So you have a family?” I repeated my question.

“Listen what’s this about?” he asked me back crossly.

“I just want to know about your family,” I said.

“Well I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, his voice rising as he fought to control his temper.

“What did you do for a living?” I asked, not letting up.

“I was a gambler,” he answered. His answers were always the same, and I felt they were almost prepared answers.

“And where did you find the money to gamble? Wait, I know you were in debt – but surely you had a job to earn money to start off gambling, right?” I had given him his premade answer, now I was challenging him to tell more.

“You little shit,” he erupted rising up from the bunk he was perched, “What the fuck has gotten into you? I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

“Oh but you take great delight in encouraging us tell you all about our lives,” I answered, rising up with him, I fairly felt the air cackle with the righteous fire of my anger.

“I was just taking an interest in you…”

I cut him off again, realising something. “Our lives mean nothing to you,” I shouted back at him, “You’re more bothered about what we can do, what our skills our, what level of education we’ve had. Are you telling the masked men all about us?”

There it was, with all my suspicions out in the opening, the real truth was starting to form in my mind.

All the anger immediately left Peter with the question, suddenly there was fear in his eyes, “I w-wouldn’t do such a thing, I’m as much their prisoner…”

“You’re no prisoner,” I said angrily. The other boys had all risen from their bunks, and were lined up next to or behind me, we were an inquisition, righteous beholders of the truth, against the accused. “You’re no prisoner,” I repeated, “You’re no slave, you’re here to evaluate us, decide how best to sell us, right?” I challenged him.

As one, we took a step forward, we were now just an arm’s length from Peter,  though I couldn’t see the others, I felt as though their anger was equal to mine.

I was wrong, Connor jumped forward grabbing Peter. No one’s anger would ever equal that boy, and now he had a real enemy to vent it upon, a traitor in our midst.

Thump, thump, repeatedly he punished Peter with his fists. We stood back as Peter cried out in pain, begging for mercy, we didn’t care, and Connor heard none of it, he just continued to punch the prone Peter on the floor.

The door opened, but we hardly seemed to notice, until three men piled into the cramped room, one pushed as back to the wall furthest from Peter and Connor. We watched as one of them kicked Connor in the room. I tried to surge forward to come to Connor’s aid, but I was downed by a club to the stomach. I was incapacitated, by the shock, the batons were designed to stun a man with impact, and then an electrical shock.

I could only watch, as one man dragged Peter out bloody and prone, and the other beat on Connor.

Connor didn’t give up though, he was fighting back, until his assailant hit him across the head with a baton.

“Stay down, you little fuck,” the muffled shout came from the masked man.

“And you little fucks stay there,” the man holding us back said. I was just starting to recover my legs after the shock, and was pulling myself to my feet, I was hit again by the baton, this time in my legs, already shaky, they collapsed beneath me, leaving me on the floor, groaning in pain.

The two men followed the third and Peter  out of the door, and it sealed shut.

A voice came from the intercom, “Enjoy your little insurrection boys, you’ll be up for sale tomorrow.”

I felt hands helping me up, and dragging me towards a bunk, I turned to the side, and saw Chris and Charlie doing the same for Connor. Charlie did his best to give Connor a once over with what limited knowledge he had that would help in the situation. Connor for his part was unconscious, otherwise, I reckon he would be trying to beat down the door to finish what he had started.

Garth, and Tim were trying to ascertain how badly I was hurt – but I had problems speaking, it was almost as if my vocal chords were frozen. It was one of the most frustrating hours of my life as I realised I was paralysed, I wanted to speak, I wanted to move, but I could do neither. Fortunately it wore off, as irony goes, once it did, all I wanted to do was sleep.

We only had a limited sense of time in our imprisonment, when it was night the lights in the corridor dimmed, we were fed at lunch time, and then again an hour before the lights outside dimmed. Once a week we were taken out and cleaned, and allowed to stretch our legs. I had no idea what time it was when I finally woke up, but the lights were at full strength outside our little door window, and everybody else but Connor was awake, talking in whispers.

“You’re awake,” Chris stated as he saw me sit up.

“Yep, though kind of wish I was still asleep,” truth be told I hurt, badly, and felt like I wanted to be sick. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t eaten much before the drama the evening before.

“We were just talking,” Garth said.

“What are we going to do?” Tim asked.

“Like I said before,” Chris said with a sigh, “There’s nothing we can do. Unless you think you can squeeze down that thing,” he said pointing to the sewage tube we used for our toilet.

“They said we’re going to be sold today,” Garth stated, “Is that it? It’s all over?”

I just groaned and sank back into the bunk. I guess I fell asleep for a bit, well I know I did, because I was awaked with a shake.

“It’s me, Chris,” he said in so loud whispers he may have well have spoken normally.

“Yes?” I responded, trying to shake the sleep from myself as I raised myself up to sitting again.

“They’ve not been to feed us?” Garth chimed in, before Chris could answer.

“How long has it been?” I asked.

“A few hours we reckon, past when they’d normally feed us,” Chris answered.

I groaned again, but this time I didn’t give in to the urge to fall asleep.

“So whats the plan?” a weak whispered voice asked. I looked over,  Connor was up, and using the wall for support, the pain was obvious in his face, as much as the huge bruise covering his forehead.

I thought about it for a few moments, as everyone looked to me expectantly.

“I don’t know,” I finally answered. They seemed to deflate some. I think that was the first time, I ever felt like an actual leader, the thought came because I realised they were looking to me for answers, and all I could do was disappoint them. “I guess it means we’re to be taken out of here soon. Probably get fed just before they take us to be sold, or just after,” I reasoned, though it offered no improvements of fortune than not having any answer.

“We could fight them,” Garth offered.

“To what end?” Connor answered, “We’re on a space station, no one really knows where, none of us can fly a ship – and let us not forget they have weapons, and there’s probably more of them than us, oh yes, and let’s not forget they deal with people like us for a living.” It was an unlikely source of countenance to violence as a plan, but I couldn’t fault his logic. I hated him a little right then for being so right, even as I knew it would have been my answer to.

“We wait,” I said, “We don’t know what the future holds, it may not be so bad, but it’s probably worse than we’ve suffered so far – but remember, we have survived everything this universe has thrown at us. We have lived in depravity, caged like animals – no worse than animals, felt betrayal, and been beaten. We’ve been through two months of hell – but we’re here. We’ll survive whatever is next.”

I took a deep breath, and braved the pain in my abdomen from where I was hit and got out of my bunk.

“You really think it’s going to be worse?” Tim asked, meekly.

“Yes, probably. I don’t think our lucks going to change so easily,” I could see both Tim and Garth were on the verge of tears as the fear of the unknown tore through them, “But know this, all of you – I intend on changing that luck. I may not be able to do it today, I may not be able to do it for a decade, but I will get myself out of this shithole of a life I’ve found myself in. I don’t know how, I don’t know where, but I know I will.”

“If you do, and we’re not separated, I’ll be right there beside you,” Charlie said rising from his bunk.

“Your fucking nuts,” Connor called from his bed, then he tried to push himself forward from the wall. It took a couple of tries, but eventually he was standing, using the bunks above as support as wavered, “But hell, can’t beat the fucking insane, count me in.”

“Thanks, I think,” I said. “I didn’t say what I said though as a call to arms,” I tried to explain, “I doubt we’ll be sold together.”

“Nah, Peter said they sell slaves in job lots – only way to make money, unless a particular slave is good enough to sell alone. If we have any good fortune, I reckon we’ll be sold together, count me in,” I was stunned, it was Terry that said it. His voice was a bit uncertain, like he didn’t use it much, and in the time I’d known him he hadn’t used it at all.

“Well, I guess so. Peter was here to find out about us, and acclimatise us to life as slaves,” I said, “Maybe you’re right Terry.” I felt just the smallest sliver of hope enter my soul. It occurred to me to ask Terry something, “What is your name?”

He just shrugged.  It was almost as if I dreamed he’d spoken.

“Well I guess you know I’m in,” Chris said.

“Us too,” Garth said gesturing to Tim and himself.

For the next hour we chattered among ourselves, I saw Chris and Connor off to one side, talking and shaking hands. We had found a common enemy, a Judas in our ranks, and now we had a common purpose – one month in and our divisions as a group were now completely gone.

For the second time in my life, and in the second time in a few hours I reflected on what it was to be a leader – I hadn’t sought leadership, I just said what I felt. However, I realised leadership was two things, the power to crush those who didn’t follow you, and to raise up those who did. These processes aren’t separate, you did one then the other, which is how you get people to follow you. It is a philosophy that I have utilised all my life, only I got better at it with experience.

Before those few hours, I don’t really think I fully existed as an individual. It was only after our own personal battle, and coming together as a unit, did I truly believe I had become a man, a whole person in my own right.

It may not seem much to those reading this account of my life, but I truly believe that in those few hours I was recast from a boy into a man. Though the road was long and rocky, I guess for all I curse captivity, and life as a slave – I will never lose what I gained. All the punishments, the back breaking work, the fights, the menial labour never could rob me of what those few hours gave me. I believe it was the same for each and every one of us that shared that cell aboard Dangaus Atstumas.

Arsène Frassin

1  1

Title: Memoirs of a Space Corsair - Captivity Part One - Terrors of Space
Author: Jonathan L. Lawrence (Sage on this blog)
Genre: Science fiction
Word Count: 6,192
Warnings/Spoilers: There is a bit of violence, foul language, and conditions of torture that may be uncomfortable for some
Credits: Everyone who reads my blog, and has put up with my failed promises of writing, and those following me on Twitter that put up with my Tweets as I was writing and editing this.
Disclaimer: © Jonathan L. Lawrence, 2010.  This is entirely an original story, all copyright to this works, and associated works with these characters, and the universe I have created belong to me, (Jonathan L. Lawrence), and me alone. I do not sanction the use of my ideas anywhere else, other than for linking back to source, and fair use. Please go here to learn more about copyright: Copyright Service

Summary: This is the first instalment in a regular series I am trying to create, set some five hundred years in the futures, it follows the trial and tribulations of one man as he tries to survive in a hostile galaxy. In the process, he will become a famous pirate with a cause, a corsair. However, we’re not there yet, first we must learn where our intrepid anti-hero comes from, this first chapter is about his launch into space, and the terrifying consequences of his reach for the stars. The second chapter in this tale will be forthcoming, however in the meantime enjoy this opening salvo of what will hopefully be a long and fulfilling tale.

I don't know who will read this or why, maybe it will make this humble man famous, and infuriate those that mean my end. I do not know. I can only hope, a true account of my life leaks out, and pisses off those that seek to vilify me, more than my due anyway. In small acts of vengeance a wrong man can find comfort I guess.

I sit here writing this in relatively sanitary conditions, (compared with some of my other experiences), a prisoner of corruption and criminals, you probably know the type, the ones that style themselves as "leaders of men", the governments of this galaxy.

If this is the end, it’s been a hell of a life, and I wanted to tell my side of it.

My name is Arsène Frassin, formerly of Pôle Nord, Epsilon Eridani c.

I was born there sixty-four years ago, in the Spring of 2522 (or 392PC depending on where you’re from). My father was a bureaucrat, a port accountant, my mother a store clerk at our town's OriMart (a retail wholesaler). You might think, given the account of my life I am about to retell, I would have had a hard, or repressive childhood, but actually it was okay, until I ventured into space. I went to a middle of the road school, nothing fancy, but efficient, well meaning, and thorough, did well enough academically, though I would say that it left me completely unprepared for the realities of life – there are some things I have learnt you just can’t teach, but I wish they could have.

On our town habitat on Eridani c, near the poles (appropriately named Pôle Nord as I mentioned), most of the business and job opportunities revolved around trade, transport and administration. Areas near the poles are the easiest and most efficient to land ships, and have them take off again after. Even with the relatively light atmosphere and gravity of our small planet, this was important. My first job was with the warehouse retailer where my mother worked, however I soon found it wasn't the career for me. I tried to join the local civil service, however times were tough and they weren't employing, despite my father’s position (which was recognised for its importance). Staying in our home city was limiting, it was a specialised place, however all my life I had watched ships land and take off, ships that had drifted among the stars themselves, travelling from world to world, across vast distances.

That I knew, back then, was what I wanted to do. I wanted to sail through the vastness of space, see alien worlds, and become one with the stars. I really did describe it as such back then, the wonders of youth, the poetical vision. I could have sought employment in other areas of our world, my education was good enough to apprentice in a number of positions, but space filled my vision and my dreams.

The following year I was old enough (15) to accept a commission aboard a star liner, and I signed up straight away. Star Liners were huge ships, carrying masses of people, and tonnes of cargo, and they were always hiring. I was to be a cleaner, I reasoned, being smart, and eager I would quickly rise up the ranks, and such a lowly position wouldn’t hold me for long, so it didn’t matter as long as I was sailing. Again the wonders of youth at such an innocent view of life, optimism abounded as I ventured into unknown waters.

I had only a week to get ready after signing up before I was to leave aboard the behemoth ship. I bid my farewells to my family, travelled round, having meals with relatives that I wouldn't see again for four years (which was a "season", or the standard length of a single term commission aboard space craft back then).

The ship I was commissioned on was the Norstel Spaceways deluxe cruiser Reina del Mar, which was only a moderate size ship, but of opulent quality for its high fare paying guests, and more than big enough to make my eyes bulge as I watched out through a scope hovering in space as its shuttles ferried back and forth.

After a life time of living in a sparse trade town and port, it was like walking through a dream. It was hard work, but the following few months went very quickly. In hindsight, these were probably the most content days of my life. My duties were usually cleaning, the upper decks of the ship were a constant battle to beat the wear and tear of so much footfall, the higher the decks the greater the expectation of the fare paying passengers that everything would be perfect. I had a certain sense of pride in what I was doing, though us labourers would never be acknowledged for the work we did, every time some overstuffed rich man or woman strode down one of my corridors marvelling at the perception – it was my hard work they were admiring.

With sadness and fortuity, these months came to an end. It was a September, in 2536, pirates had recently moved into the shipping lanes between Achemar to Phoenix solar systems, after a redeployment of a French base further towards Earth. The cruise liner had just dropped from light speed to an empty region of space, about four days out from Achemar.

Everything seemed normal, the captain was recharging the capacitors that gave the ship the ability to transcend the light barrier, the crew were going about their duties, knowing that in the evening (ship time), they would have some free time to laugh and relax. I was busy cleaning deck 32c, which was a corridor between some of the mid-range quarters and the dining hall, I could hear the afternoon opera wafting through the corridor, easing the burden of work slightly.

Within in an hour or two, the hopes of time to relax were dashed, a sound I had only heard a handful of times before in drills broke through the ship. The klaxons warning of a collision.

There were three labourers in the corridor with me, we were in the most luxurious area of the ship, and it was our duty this week to keep the expensive red carpets, both expensive looking, and red. We all looked at each other, panic started to work its way through our expressions - but only slowly, we each half wondered if this were some sort of drill. We had never known an unannounced drill; it was bad for passenger satisfaction, if there free time was rudely interrupted.

Indeed some very upset passengers were starting to enter the corridors, myself and the other labourers dodged questions, and headed forward with the crowd. Everyone wanted answers, everyone felt they deserved answers more than anyone because of the amount they had spent to travel aboard the luxury liner, and many were offering to pay us for information. We took some of the money and scampered with broken words of reassurance, after all labourer’s wages weren't very much, and we doubted in the confusion anyone would be fingering us for such a minor crime.

The panels midway up each wall of every corridor were directing passengers and crew towards the emergency airlocks. Crowds of people gathered around the emergency airlock on the deck we were on, hanging outside, waiting on instructions. We waited with them.

The klaxon suddenly shut off, which only multiplied the confusion, as no one knew if we should be getting into the pods, and who would activate the airlocks if we needed to be in them. I didn't understand what was going on, there were none of the senior crew members around, there should be several supervising the pods, whether it was a real emergency or not.

Then there was a hum as the corridor speakers came online.

"Ladies and gentleman, and all crew members," the Captains voice boomed. The Captain was a portly man, but he had a voice that seemed as deep as the rumble of the engines themselves, and it carried well across the PA system. "It is with deep regret that I address you know, however I want you to listen carefully. Firstly, there is no reason to panic. If we all remain calm everything will be fine," he said, there was an edge a nervousness about his deep voice, however all the same it was comforting for me to hear amid the chaos of the people gathered round the airlocks to the emergency pods.

"Secondly, I would like to ask everyone to return to their assigned rooms and bunks, this is very important. Please make your way back. We will be in contact shortly with more information," there was a click as the transmission ended.

Everyone stood in silence, staring at one another, none knowing what was going on, several dived for the escape pods, though these weren't yet active, so they were just hitting the door open button, and nothing happened. Most people filtered back through the corridors chattering loudly, each offering a question, or a theory about what was going on.

The labourers all started heading in the opposite direction, back towards the elevators that would take us down to the crew quarters, in the lowest part of the habitable decks. The ship, though small for its class still had thirty-five decks, so it took a dozen seconds for the elevator to descend to our deck, however when it reached our deck, we felt it halt but the doors did not open.

I looked around as confused as anyone else in the elevator, we were all fairly young, mostly teenagers, and a couple in their early twenties. There were about twenty of us. I knew most of them by sight, but only knew the names of a few – if I remember rightly, the ship carried nearly fifteen hundred crew, of which five hundred were labourers such as myself.

"Why won't the doors open?" Craig asked panicked. Craig was a shortish lad, with sandy hair, about my age, he was in the bunks next door to mine, though he was Anglo, he seemed to spend most of his time with us French speakers from the Epsilon system.

Chris was tapping the buttons on the elevator console, trying to get any sort of reaction. Chris  was one of my fellow bunkmates, and a good friend, so I knew him pretty well. He was a scant inch taller than me, with fully black hair (mine at the time was a dark brown), he was very lanky though, being of a more cerebral mind than most labourers who built up their muscle mass scrubbing and cleaning.

I looked over at what he was doing, but the console was dark, for all intents and purposes it was dead. "I don't understand," he declared, as he resorted to hitting it.

The violence was starting to have a reaction, but on us, not its intended victim. Frustration built, panic spread. I could see it happening around me, could feel my own ire building, as Chris's did, I grabbed him pulled him away from the console.

"Calm down," I said, trying to be as assertive as possible.

"Sorry, Ari," Craig said, taking deep breaths. Ari was my nickname aboard ship, even though many of the labourers came from my home system of Epsilon Eridani, and were French speakers like me, in space the common language was Anglo-Saxon English, I didn’t really mind, there were worse abbreviations of my name in English.

"How do we get out of here?" a Hispanic voice behind me said, I didn't see who, I knew three of my fellow crew in the elevator with me were Hispanic, but I didn't really know them all that well. The Reina del Mar passed through many territories, and picked up and dropped off crew as it needed to, there were many tribes of languages aboard, and for the most part each tribe consorted with its own tribe, having a shared language made for close knit groups - it wasn't antagonistic though, we each got along when on duty, and at crew occasions, it was simply in my few months aboard, I had stuck with French and English speakers, as I learned my way. I actually got on well with most of the crew aboard, I spent much of my years in education learning language, including Spanish.

I tried to pry the doors open, though as it turned out it was pointless. Elevators aboard big ships were air tight tubes, in case any deck was compromised by the cold vacuum of space. If the doors didn't open, they never would. There were probably emergency procedures for opening the doors, but they weren’t common knowledge, it was better to wait for an engineer to get to you, it had happened to me a couple of weeks back when there had been a fault, if the doors hadn’t lined up, there might not be a proper seal with the deck airlock.

We heard yells from outside the elevator, then a sound none of us were familiar with, it was like a series of thuds and muted bangs, followed by muffled screams.

We each looked frightened, none of us said a word, we dare not make a sound, we had no idea what was going on.

We were stuck in the lift for several hours, the sounds from outside moved further and further away, until they became so silent as to seem to no longer exist. However our problems still multiplied. Most of us were tired, hungry, and thirsty. The crisis had started near the end of our shifts, so we had been looking forward to food from the crew galley. Instead all we had between us were some small fruit, and a chocolate bar. The money several us had had foisted upon us, which was the official explanation we were giving each other, meant absolutely nothing in our present situation, though some bartering for the chocolate bar did go on.

Several hours more passed, we spent most of it sleeping, there was nothing else to do. We were awoken though, by the sudden sound of the doors opening, the hydraulics giving a whoosh, and the hiss of the air seal being broken.

"Wot 'ave we 'ere?" a gruff voice said. I looked up, through the haze of waking, to see a giant blocking most of the eerie red light from the corridors. The light inside the elevator wasn’t very bright, leaving just the mountainous silhouette.

All of us stayed where we were, afraid to rise, afraid to move, because none of us knew this man, he wasn't among any of the crew that we knew. I could sense this from every ones reactions, and of course no one greeting him by name, things are more obvious in hindsight than they were in the moment.

"Cum' on," he gestured for us to leave with his arm, waving it back towards the corridor, and then he stepped back to make room for us to pass. I looked out into the red lit corridor, there was a haze that shouldn’t be there, the air systems aboard the Reina del Mar quickly cleared smoke should there by a fire. In a closed environment such as ours, smoke was far more deadly than fire itself, suffocation was a terrifying prospect, nearly as much as sucking vacuum. I couldn’t see much else, I was fixated on the smoke, and the man that stood before us. As he stepped back, the red light lit up more of his detail, he was easily two meters tall, and big, it seemed at the time that his he must be most of a meter across. His grey and black hair seemed to be crawling out wildly from beneath a leather cap, and his beard was patchy, as if it couldn’t grow across large parts of a his face.

We didn't move, didn't dare move. His face reddened, "Cowards huh?" he said in a gravely whisper, "Tae the last man, eh?" he said, pulling from his side a monstrous looking pistol.

We started to rise, slowly, Craig though remained on the ground, he was whimpering. He had panicced before, I guess he had little tolerance for any situation out of the normal, and now we were in a terrifying no man’s land, to which none of us had been before.

"Aye, we'll be 'aving nae cowards," he pointed the pistol at Craig.

I bent down to Craig and tried to lift him up, but he stubbornly refused to move, I panicked myself, afraid for him. I kicked him, not hard, but enough to get his attention. He pushed my leg, and I went sprawling, and landed hard, the air knocked out of me. In the lower decks, gravity tended to be higher than Earth norm, because it was closer to the gravity plates that provided gravity to the whole ship.

"Remember boy," the gruff man said with menace, "T'wasn't me, that sends ya to ya maker," then he fired, I remembered the noise, it wasn’t a bang like you got on television with air popper guns, this was a screech. This I later learned was a sonic gun. Craig’s head exploded, blood and splatter was everywhere. Everyone screamed, and tried to make a break for it, the man put his left arm out, which wasn't holding the pistol, and blocked us from leaving. His right arm pointed the gun into the midst of those huddling to get out of the elevator.

"T'wasn't me, that sends ya to ya maker," he repeated slowly, almost softly, "T'was yer own choices," then he turned down to look at the remaining twelve labourers, "T'won't be forgetting that will ya?" he asked.

Every one of us stood stock still, unaccustomed to violence, and the threat of it that this stranger poised.

"Now, line up outside in da corridor, against da wall," he said with malevolent assertiveness, that and the threat of his gun were undeniable. Meekly we did what we were commanded to do.

"Nah, let’s be 'aving yer names," the terrifying mountain of a man said.

He went down the line, pointing the gun at each of us, and we gave him our names. I do not now recall of the names of our entire group, however I can never forget three such names. Their names, and their faces, and what happened after are forever seared into my brain.

I had already given my name, being three places in from the left, the man had started from the left, about five places, were the three Hispanic boys.

The man pointed his pistol at the first, "Name," he said.

"R-Rafael Balboa," he said, nervously, under the man’s glare, and Rafael visibly shrank as the scrutiny by the man became more intense.

However, he moved to the next Hispanic boy in line. He aimed the gun once again at the boy’s chest, "Name," he said. He wasn't really asking a question, he was simply stating an order.

"Juan Romero," the boy said, trying to keep his fear in check.  I will always remember him; he kept himself up right, and never shrank from the glare of the man. I think, he would have been a great man, if circumstances had been different.

The man moved on, "Name," he said, once more pointing the gun at the boy as he gave the order.

"J-J-Jason De la Vega," he stuttered, terrified.

The man stared at him for a few moments, "Español?" the gruff man asked.

"Sí", the boy responded.

"Ye 'ave an Anglo firs name?" the man inquired back in English once more.

"I-I," the boy stuttered, unprepared to be interrogated, none of the rest of us had been required to say anything beyond our names, "My mother was English," he said finally.

The man studied him for a few more seconds, and then moved on up the line.

After a couple of minutes, he had all of our names, he looked back down the line at us.

"Wot," he said loudly, then pausing, "Wot am I to do with ye?"

No one said a word, but we were all restless in our fear.

"Ye, ye, and ye," he said gesturing to Jason, Rafael, and Juan, "Git over dere."

Jason and Rafael stepped forward, but Juan hung back, I turned to look at him, and saw the panic in his eyes.

The gruff man reached a leather clad hand out and whacked the Hispanic boy across the side of the head, then grabbed him by the collar as he reeled and threw him into the other Hispanics.

"Do as ye told, all of ye," he shouted, then levelled the guns on the three Hispanic boys. He didn't say anything else, he just started shooting. It was all a bit of a blur, the shrieks of the gun merged into one, blood was everyone, everyone was screaming, and as one the crowd of boys bolted down the corridor, away from the massacre. I swear to you, to this day, the gruff man was aiming for their limbs one by one, but it all happened so fast, maybe I just append the cruelty on to his crimes.

As we approached the end of the corridor, we slowed no one knowing whether to go left or right at the T junction ahead, however as we slowed, people started falling and there were more screams, always preceded by the shriek of the gun which came from the gruff man’s pistol. The group split down both directions, I followed my friend Chris down the left hand corridor with six others.

In hindsight, it was pure chance, but following Chris is probably what saved my life, though in the months after I was never sure if that was a blessing or not.  I think in all my life, those few minutes were the most terrifying. They also, I think had a big hand in helping form who I would become.

It may seem like I'm short on details, it’s because I never really knew who the attackers were, who the gruff man was. It was nearly fifty years ago, and though I believe myself to be as sharp, mentally, as I ever was, some memories do fail me. I can make all sorts of excuses, but instead, I'll just recount what little I know of what happened afterwards.

After running left, we literally ran into a net, surrounded by a dozen men all laughing and pointing. There were four of us, and we were dragged in the net through the corridors of the ship to a docking port on the starboard side.

Then we were dragged through, a sudden drop in gravity made the journey through the dark rotten smelling corridors of a new ship only the smallest bit easier. Small reliefs are worth larger ones, I've learned in life.

We were dumped in a brig type cell, net and all, and simply left. The cell was probably a metre and a half wide, and eight meters long, and about three meters tall. It was actually larger than the more modest mid-ship rooms on board the Reina del Mar, though it felt cramped with eight of us in there, and the net.

The first two weeks in that hole passed excruciatingly slowly, and I skip over it because little happened to tell. There were four of us, myself, Chris, Garth, and Tim. We were all quite literally lost and confused, none of us had seen sight nor sound of another person since we had fled through the corridors of the Reina del Mar, and ran into the net that had brought us here. The closest thing to life outside the room we had come to was the slop that was pushed through an opening at the top of the door, which fed through a tube and landed in a trough further down where we could get to it. I don’t know what the slop was, I couldn’t identify any real taste, other than a slightly bitter after taste, and maybe some kind of milk substitute.

The first few days we had pleaded with the hole in the door that deposited our food, in the hopes of reaching anyone who was there. However no matter our pleas there had been no reaction.

We didn't know if there were more captives aboard, or if we were the only ones. We didn't even know who our jailers were, we had only seen the gruff man who initially captured us. None of us had seen those with the net that had grabbed us as we fled, it was just a blur. We had heard laughing, and mocking, and we had been kicked as the net was dragged through the rotten smelling ship, before reaching the squalid cell we now occupied.

"What are we going to do?" Chris whispered to me conspiratorially.

Chris and I had spent hours searching the whole of the cell. It had bland grey metal walls, completely smooth for the most part, where there was an access panel, it was nearly completely flush, and no amount of prying with our fingers would shift it. The room was tall as well, easily three meters in height, not that reaching the ceiling would have help us, the ceiling looked as uncompromising as the walls of the cell.

The only way in or out we could find was the door. It looked thick and heavy, though we hadn't seen it open, it was merely the feeling we had as captives. About a third of the way up the door (which stretched nearly to the ceiling from flush with the floor), was the trough which gathered the slop which came from the tube near the top of the door. Not all the slop landed in the trough, and around the door, after two weeks, the slop that had gathered there was a mix of fresh and fetid slop.

The slop however wasn't what made the cell squalid, there was no lavatory facility of any kind, we both urinated and evacuated in one corner of the six foot by seven foot cell, as far away from the food as possible, where it seemed others had done the same before us. Our sanitary problems were not contained to the corner though, two weeks was a lot of excrement to build up, and it was gradually travelling the floor, helped by our rotting shoes carrying it over the whole floor.

Our clothes were spoiled, back on the Reina del Mar, as labourers, we had worn simple white uniforms, with black belts. Now they were black and brown with the filth, as was any visible skin on any of the boys.

We slept in the middle of the room, wherever we happened to fall, we had long since given up on any kind of attempt at finding the cleanest, least squalid spot, it no longer mattered.

"What are we going to do?" Chris repeated his question, waking me from the distraction of my thoughts.

"Oh, sorry," I said gathering my wits, I found it very easy to kind of disconnect my brain, and look at things from an abstract perspective. It didn't do any good, but for a little it would feel less personal, like watching a reality show from a holovid terminal. "What can we do?" I said once I thought about it.

"I don't know," he said with a heavy sigh. "We have to do something though, we're going to die in here at this rate," he added.

"I doubt we'll die," I said with a certainty I did not feel, "Why keep us alive this long? They must want something."

"What though?" Garth said, sliding over.

"I don't know! Do I look like I've been out of this cell to find out?" I said snapping.

"Gee," Garth said sarcastically, "Who woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," he added softening the mood a bit. We all giggled, there was little enough to laugh about, and it was easy to get stressed and snappy in the cell.

"Okay," Chris said, suddenly animated, "There's one place we've not checked yet."

"Where? We've looked across every wall centimetre by centimetre, we've tried the door, and we tried the ceiling," I said defensively, and then the realisation dawned on me.

"The floor," Chris said finishing my thought for me. "We checked most of it," he gestured to three quarters of the floor, "But we didn't check there," he said pointing at the refuse pile. The refuse pile, though small before we arrived. It was now large, and spreading, and we hadn't looked beneath the refuse, our pride had potentially cost us dearly.

"Must we?" Garth asked wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Got anything better to do?" I asked.

"We're already filthy, and we'll probably catch some infection sooner or later anyway," Chris said arguing for his idea.

"This is going to be gross," Tim said sliding over, in the same manner Garth had.

"We need to do it," Chris said, "I don’t want to stay here much longer. Do you?"

"Chris is right," I said, supporting the idea. I desperately wanted out of the cell, and so far we had nothing. We could be here for years longer, for all we knew. We weren't truly sure how long we'd been here, there was no night and day cycle, the glow panels round the top of the wall were permanently on, giving off a duller than normal light. On the Reina del Mar, you could tell roughly the time of the day by how bright the corridor lights were – full brightness for day, dimmed lighting for the nights – and in the guest rooms there were viewing panes on the wall that should day and night scenery depending on the time of day.

We said no more words, no one argued against not doing it, everybody wanted out, and now it was a case of whatever it took. We had literally nothing to lose, but the smallest illusion of dignity. We approached the pile of piss, and shit with trepidation, no one wanted to be first, but Chris after a few moments of silence plucked up the courage and plunged his hands in and dragged the wet and loose top layer away. Over the next two hours we took it in turns, dragging more and more of the shit away, making a hole down to the bottom. The pile was about two foot deep, and as we get further down, the work got tougher, and as the refuse became harder with age.

Finally we reached the bottom, but it was just more of the metal, we didn't stop though, we had long since gone past the stage of gagging, so we made the hole bigger, and bigger, in the morning of the second day, after working shifts through the night, we finally found something. About two feet back from the corner we found the start of a grate. We dug furiously, and finally uncovered the whole thing. It was barely a foot square, but to us it was a massive triumph.

For a few minutes, we felt good, we had achieved something, though we had to ignore the state of the grate. It was obvious it was meant to be drainage, maybe some act of kindness towards prisoners long since forgotten. Looking into the grate it was solid with brown and black rotting faecal matter.

"Now what?" Garth asked dejectedly, maybe in the heat of the moment he actually believed we could find a way out of the cell. I didn't really believe it, but I must admit, I was betrayed by a sense of failure.

"We keep digging," Chris said, as he tried to pry up the grate, Tim began helping him. It took hours, amid the squalid filth, the smell that we could never quite become acclimatised to, but we managed to raise the grate.

We were tired, and we realised we had been working at the grate into what we considered our evening, and we also realised food had not been put through the slot in the door. None of us said anything, we didn't acknowledge the lack of food, we just carried on.

Maybe two days had gone by, we dug in shifts, two sleeping, two digging, with a few hours where we were all awake. We had long since finished the last of the slop in the trough on the door, and were getting hungry, but we didn't let that stop us, indeed we figured that we now had no choice if they had stopped feeding us. At the end of the two days, I think we had made it all the way down a foot through the filth. None of us had any idea how far down it was, but we continued anyway, survival drove us, pushing us past the stink, pushing us past our hunger, barely a word was spoken, we just got on with the job.

It was the morning of the third day, or what past for morning, when Garth and Tim started shouting and swearing. Me and Chris had been catching some sleep, and woke with alarm.

We enquired what was up.

"Look for yourselves," Garth said pointing.

We went over to our hole, and looked down, through the pallid browns we saw down three feet, and the grate our fellow captives had discovered.

"We're not getting out of here, are we?" Tim asked, dejected.

"We'll just have to move that grate," I said, not willing to surrender. It may have been little hope, but it was something to do, something to aim for, and we needed that. "I'll go down, and try to move it," I leant over the hole, it was now too deep to reach the bottom with my hands, so I shuffled myself over, and lowered myself down further. Someone grabbed my legs to stop me falling all the way into the hole.

I tried for several minutes to pry the grate loose, but lack of purchase wouldn't let me get a grip.

"Up," I shouted, and several hands pulled me back from the ledge. I took a moment to catch my breath, "I couldn't get leverage," I reported.

"Okay, let’s get down there and try and get some," Chris said, not giving in on our only hope. However, the hope only lasted an hour.

I was down the hole again, being held up by Chris and Garth, trying to pull up the grate that we had cleaned off without own clothes. I swore loudly as I saw what was stopping the grate. Chris and Garth pulled me back up again.

"What's wrong?" Garth asked.

"The grate is fitted into the wall, there is no way to pull it up," I sighed, sinking to the floor in a pile of excrement, the last vestiges of dignity escaping. "It’s useless, all useless."

Everybody joined me in sinking to the floor. That was it; we were out of hope, out of energy, out of food. Whoever took us robbed us of everything we possibly had.

I sat there thinking about my life, regretting ever having left my home planet, of daring to venture into cold, dark, dangerous space.

Thus was my introduction to the rigours of space. I hope you understand this part of my life I have only written about in brief as to give you an idea where I came from. I was not born a pirate, or a corsair, I did not come from a rich family, but nor I a poor one. Circumstances conspired to leave me with nothing, and it was a long time before things really changed for the better. I think I was in that cell, for maybe a month, but at the end of the month freedom was no more promising.

Everything that happened came from situations I found myself in, or opportunities I made, along with friends, colleagues and enemies along the way. I wanted you to know  where it all began. This is my story, I will probably have many months to write it all down, my current captives are far more civilised barbarians, than those of my first capture. Though eventually I face execution for my crimes, I think my greatest crime was simply that of survivor.

Not a day goes by that I don’t remember the people who died on board the Reina del Mar, especially the cold brutality the killed Craig and the three Hispanic boys. I swore I would survive, and I would never again be the weak against the strong. Of course the universe played me a fool, many times I was indeed the weaker force against a stronger one, but I survived. Sometimes only just. I will try and write more tomorrow, if I can beg of my current jailers some more paper.

Arsène Frassin

© Jonathan L. Lawrence, 2010

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My eleventh day of poetry practice, somewhat delayed after first having site issues, and then computer ones to boot. I'm not giving up, and I do have a back log of poetry to post, however I'm at work, so figured I'd write a quick one, and prove I'm still alive.

Disaster of a Dream

Soaring high above the world,
Glorious hue of unadultered blue,
Wisps of clouds stretching far beneath,
Breaks of green, and brown, and blue,
I am free, nothing can ever get to me here.

Feeling secure here, I swirled,
Blinded by beauty, I never had a clue,
My flight is at an end, I fall towards heath,
Panic flairs, my joy now seesm untrue,
I am trapped, falling to my death in fear.

Without warning, I am curled,
My workplace, twisted and strange,
An assault of vaunted ceilings, and a scary bar,
Signs of the office I know in the range,
I flee, this new world is out to get me.

The scene to Birmingham I'm hurled,
All about me recognised in change,
I bump into a scarey person with a scar,
He grabs me, we fall down a derange,
I hold on, he continues to fall free.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

Now just a bit about this poem :

This poem is a half truth, if I'm honest to the best of my recollection I have never had a dream like that in the first half,  (Soaring high above the world), but I wish I had. The second half on the other hand is all too true, this was a dream I had not long since, it woke me up, and I was seriously freaked out.  I don't often remember dreams, just one or two a month. When I woke up, and calmed down, I decided I wanted to remember this nightmare, so I grabbed my trust E71, and furioulsy typed the events of my dream. It wasn't easy at 3:30am with no light, but I did it, and as a result, the nightmare has been with me since.

The notes I have are far more detailed than this poem, this poem just scratches the surface, I've got descriptions for everyone, and dialogue, more thoughts, more feelings - but if I wanted to retell the nightmare exactly, I would probably lose something in translation.

I would have liked another part of this poem, unfortunately the consistent rhyme based on the word "world", didn't go as far as I would have liked. I know poetry doesn't have to rhyme, but sometimes a rhyme keeps a focus. I could go back and abandon it, but then it's spoilt my initial outpouring. I may post up a second version tonight that's edited - but in this case the edit would be a similar be seperate poem to my mind, and heat.

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My tenth day of writing practice poems to get myself fit for competition.

Today we have one about the weather, which bears no relation to the weather experienced this weekend funnily enough.

Atmosphere Alight
Furous titans battle at the edge,
Tempestuous gods push back,
Might against might
The battle of nature rages.

Hurricanes battle warm fronts,
Thunder and lightening attack,
Atmosphere alight,
Man measures its puny gauges.

Rivers swell breaking banks,
Weather defences seem to lack,
Dangerous sight,
The battle for nature through ages.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-ten/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-nine/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-nine/#comments Fri, 22 May 2009 16:52:43 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=158

Well today is day nine, I'm starting to feel good about writing poetry, well I always did, but having been away for nearly a year, I felt anxious about writing. I'm not a confident person, I'm honest, hard working, and caring - all great qualities but I lack confidence. Writing today's poem, I felt confident about writing poetry, and that is a fantastic feeling.

Anyway, here's today's poem:

Trumble

Trumble trumble
The train is speeding along the tracks,
Like the cliche it goes on and on,
It doesn't care how many poets pay tribute,
How could it? It's a train, it suffers no dispute,
Like the cliche it goes on and on,
Until age, fault, or accident attacks,
Trumble trumble.

Trumble trumble,
It might carry passengers or sacks,
Train doesn't care, just goes it's way,
For cheap fast long distance it suffers no substitute,
It's masters do, they're not nearly as astute,
They only care about getting more pay,
Preventing the goofd things train lacks,
Humble grumble.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

Well we're back to political rantscommentary as poetry, throw in a bit of business, but mostly it's politically motivated. The train may not care about the state of British railways, but I do - between Labour and Conservatives, the railways have been turned into a wasteful, inefficient, unenjoyable, expensive and ill-fated form of travel. Why ill fated? Well if enough train companie go under, the rail network would grind to a halt - either someone wealthy would get wealthier running a shadow of the service, or it simply stops. The rail network, and it's subsidies, have been so artificially raised up, no government could take it back - though they'd happily pay as much to the wealthy hero to take over.

I'm grouchy - I love public transport, or loved is more accurate. Have such fantastic memories, and feelings of trains of old. By old I mean my relatively recent childhood - big black and white Intercity's with their golden stripe were always a mystery. I never got to go on one before they became GNER, then National Express trains. The design, and routes may not have changed, these cheap rip-offs, the amateur replacements are no match in my mind for the glorious behemoths of memories.

I remember going to the National Railway Museum in York as a child with my grandparents - if I loved the idea of the Intercities, this was where I was blown away. Amazing contraptions everywhich way, Mallards, and Stephenson's Rocket, walk through 30's 1st class carriages, and even take a short ride along the tracks, steam billowing from the front, distinctive whistles blaring.

I'm on a train now, a Pandolino (on mobile so not easy to check spelling), it doesn't compare, and though I have somewhere good to go, the journey isn't the same.

I should probably have written a second poem, this post deserved it, as did my memories. Maybe another time I'll revisit that passion.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-nine/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-eight/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-eight/#comments Thu, 21 May 2009 16:32:02 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=151

So my poetry practice continues, where now into the second week, and still I hope to continue upon this path. I am going to start introducing mandatory elements into my daily practice poems, just to liven it up, and stretch myself technically, and emotively. I will cover these in more details in a post later, laying out what I intend on doing.

That being said, it is possibly that I won't be posting for a few days as I go away, however I will try to avoid this, as I really like keeping to a poem a day, and will be writing them, so it is only a minor hassle to fathom a way to post them.

Anyway, onto today's poem - as I write this, I haven't started writing the poem, this is coming straight out of my head and into the pages of this blog. No preparation, or hesitation.

The Gifts of Poets Gone

As I lay here, on the backs of giants,
Poetry forebearers that carried the skill into art,
Whose tireless efforts, and many a sacrifice,
Have given me today,
The bed upon which I lay.

By which I mean the literary warrants,
The rules, tempers, and heritages they impart,
For which I am able to add my words, spice,
And never say nay,
The words my mind may.

As I lay here dwelling in fragments,
Of poetry past and present, musing my part,
I have yet to play, indulging my vice,
I suffer no defray,
It will be words day.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

I think this poem is relatively clear, and it's source easy to identify (see my last blog post), it is also something I genuinely believe and hold dear. Though I am a pale imitation of their art, their skill, and their lives, I am no less beholden to them for the gifts they have given that have led me to where I am.

Where I imitate there style, where I borrow from their prose, I hope they would be flattered, and hope they would appreciate my gratitude.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-eight/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-seven/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-seven/#comments Wed, 20 May 2009 17:08:20 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=144

Well I'm now upto a week of writing daily poetry, it's going pretty well, I even managed an extra one on Monday - however it was so bad, I dare not let the rest of the world see it.

Today's poetry practice is brought to you by 12Seconds, the short video blogging site to which I just signed up. No idea what I'm going to do with a 12 seconds account, I'm not exactly photogenic, and my voice isn't great - but for 12 seconds, who cares? It's a bit of fun. Anyway, it's the inspiration for today's poem, and I've even done a 12 second version for 12Second, which will add after the poem itself.

12 Seconds...
"12 seconds you're on Mister Legend",
"Who me? I'm just well me",
"It's your 12 seconds Mister",
"Erm, what do I say?"
That woman with the camera,
She looked at me funny,
And then just laughed,
"You're 12 seconds is up Mister Legend,"
She said, with an impish giggle,
Indeed they were,
12 seconds flies by,
My 12 seconds of fame,
Good bye.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

From 12seconds.tv

Video of me doing a 12 second version of this poem.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-seven/feed/ 2 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-six/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-six/#comments Tue, 19 May 2009 22:02:40 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=136

As part of my aim to enter some poetry competitions, I have been practicing writing (hopefully getting better along the way). Today (Tuesday19th May) is day 6, so here’s today’s poem:

On Tom Welling

In regards to Tom Welling,
I'm reliably informed,
The actor of Superman to be,
Is hotness to the core,
His love for fellow man is to be admired,
His humility in the face of fame,
Well shames even the fameless.

A story telling,
I am impressed by his Clark,
Across fandom it has stormed,
I'm told the love he portrays,
For villanous Lex Luthor,
Will be a thing of a legend making,
That isn't the in my rules of the game,
I just love the hero making I guess.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

I was struggling a bit today, didn't think I would make it for poem of the day, but hils came up with this idea, in response to my plea on Twitter. Now I do love Smallville, even as people are struggling with it - I think it's been better, but since watching the most recent episode, initially I thought I was more disappointed than anything else - but once my super random brain kicked in, I'd formulated at least a handful of brilliant points, and ideas where it could be going when it restarts in Autumn.

Anyway, this is a short poetic tribute to the shows main star, Tom Welling who plays Clark Kent, the Superman in the making.

Hope you enjoy.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-six/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-five/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-five/#comments Mon, 18 May 2009 19:25:35 +0000 JL Legend http://www.aspiring.org/?p=117

As part of my aim to enter some poetry competitions, I have been practicing writing (I'm a touch rusty). Today (Monday 18th May) is day 5, so here's today's poem:

Sleep Protector

Lie down in velvet shadows,
Find warmth in the heavy presence,
Wrap yourself in the love we share,
Feel our protection from the darkness,
I will be there for now by your side,
You need not fear this deep night,
As we rest in peaceful slumber,
Enjoy.

Rise in caramel illumination,
Flood awareness flood to your senses,
Find your way out of your downy care,
Avoid realising your profound cureless,
In your dreams to yourself you lied,
Found comfort away in the fright,
I'm a figment in the dream of forever,
Sorry.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

This is a really sad poem, it starts off sounding romantic, but it's almost unreal. A couple go to bed, nice and romantic, but only one talks, sooths, the other offers no reaction, but to fall asleep. My intention was to invoke the feeling of a night guardian, he stands watch over our fateful sleeper.

I don't know about you, but I long for that - it's almost a magical romantic ideal. Which the second verse reveals is the truth. I would feel a prodound sense of loss at realising this dream wasn't real, but can you be sure can you? The figment apologised - which to me, says that maybe this phantom protector is real, but gone when you awake.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-five/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-four-days-catch-up/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-four-days-catch-up/#comments Sun, 17 May 2009 17:36:53 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=107

I had intended on posting these daily, however sometimes life takes over the best meant plan.

I have written a poem each day, as I committed to - none of them are really great, one I've really struggled with, partly because I was busy, and partly because the ideas just wouldn't organise themselves into a decent poem. I've covered three topics: politics, society, and family (well I can honestly say my interest in sociological topics does in no way affect my writing - okay I can't say that).

Like I said, none of them are really great, but I don't think any of them are really terrible. Got to keep it up though, I would love to think that come June 1st, I'll be confident of my own abilities again, also it's good to know, even though I can't write a story (in the traditional sense), it doesn't affect my ability to write poetry.

What I'm going to do, under the 'Read more' link is display each poem, and after each one give a a few lines of explanation.  If you care to read some of my practice poetry,  feel free, comments are always good, if you want to be critical, that's great - this is practice after all.

Thursday's poem

Be Afraid

Be afraid,

Terrible things to lament,

Dawn raid,

Terrorising the different,

Dark shade,

Petty criminals in goverment,

End made,

Fabric of tyranny rent,

He bade,

A hero comes, power is lent,

Be afraid.

© Jonathan L. Lawrence, May 2009

Now, I admit, this poem does meander a bit, however it only seems that way. It's easy to believe that Labour are responsible for draconian measures alone, that is them we need to be afraid - the point of this short peace (written in the wake  of the expenses scandal),  is that these issues are cross party. The Tories, and the Lib Dems haven't really lived up to their billing as opposition, they don't balance the power system out, instead they score political points over less important things, and usually just follow the Labour party, in the hopes of gaining some sort of slip stream. Only when the horse has bolted, do they give any appearance of countering the ruling party.

As to the hero, well the hero is no better than the villain he replaces, because he is already one of them. I don't believe democracy is always like this, or will be like this - but I fail to see, from the current crop of choices, any serious difference, certainly not for the better.

Friday's poem

The Tempestuous Man

The Tempestuous Man stood bellowing,

All the wrongs of his life,

Sat huddling amid the strife.

The Tempestuous Man began demanding,

Unparalleled respect,

From the political sect.

The Tempestuous Man started deflating,

When he saw the frown,

That would bring him down.

The Tempestuous Man was moaning,

As the last dagger struck,

Rending his future unstuck.

© Jonathan L. Lawrence, May 2009

If you don't know the workings of British politics so well, you might not get this - however in the lower house of parliament, we have what is known as the "speaker", he controls proceedings, and technically statements are presented to him. He has no real power outside the chamber, but inside the chamber he his responsible for the proceedings. Our current Speaker is one Michael Martin, an odious little twat, who I felt was a mistake at the time of his appointment, and still is to this day. There have been some humourous moments, but mostly aimed at him, rather than with him. He's litigious, believing that his solicitors Carter Fuck (or properly known as Carter Ruck), then there's giving carte blanche to the police to search parlimentary offices (well one office), which he let his juniors take the blame for. I have no respect for him, and with several ministers arguing he should step down, and a vote of no confidence over how he has handled the expenses controversy (his handling is to be expected, but clearly far from justified, since he's already been stung in the past by leaks of inappropriate use of expenses). Anyway, this poem is about that self same man, for whom trouble is something he seems to attract to himself.

Saturday's poem

Our Heroes Chased

The State of the modern world,

Is always one of exigeny,

All of our problems seem to need action now,

Never later,

Yet for all media's commentaries no knows how,

Trapped by our own hesitancy,

Our state remains unchanged.

All our greatest heroes are chased,

We embrace their abandonment,

Our problems collectively dumped on them,

Never support,

As if we aren't the cause, they are the stem,

But when things are tough we expect their commitment.

© Jonathan L. Lawrence, May 2009

This is the poem I really struggled with, it was a nice idea, the first verse sets the scene for the reason of the poem, kind of self explaining where I'm coming from. I did want to add a third verse,  kind of a consequences of our actions,what happens when our heroes abandon us, as we abandon them. However, my mind kept going down apocalyptic routes, which wasn't exactly where I wanted to go - the world lives on without heroes, it's just a far less interesting, and safe world to go on in.

Suffice to say, it ended on two verses, losing a little bit of the beginning, middle, and end structure - but, it kind of works, I mean it's about the state of the world today, not tomorrow, it's where we are.

Sunday's poem (today)

Family Grace

I was born into a family of aspiriationalists,

My mother and father aspired to be,

They tried to make their dreams come true,

Made themselves into better people,

Changed their lots in life,

It didn't last, but nothing does,

They still try though,

To see the other side,

The pay off for all that effort,

Things can't always go there way,

But while I'm here, I'll help them while I can,

Because, like them, I aspire to be,

More than sum of my parts,

I will always be the sum of my up bringing though,

Which has lead me all the way to here,

And one day it'll lead me to where happiness lies,

Not from rags to riches,

Nothing to do with fame and fortune,

It's the pleasant feeling,

That general sense of well being,

That comes from a job well done,

I hope they make it,

And that I do too.

© Jonathan L. Lawrence, May 2009

Not really sure anything needs to be said about this, for all their troubles, for all the trials they bring on themselves, I love my parents dearly - and they are an inspiration to me, they've supported me all my life, for which I will be eternally grateful. Without them, I wouldn't aspire to be a writer, I wouldn't aspire to be a better analyst, I wouldn't have interests in matters sociological, theological, scientific, art and a myriad of other things they've supported me in over the years. I am the man I am, in all the best ways, because of them, and their aspirations. So this poem, is just a dedication to that, simple as.

Well that's your lot for today, if you've found time to read them, I hope they weren't too appalling to thine eyes, or boring of subject, or style. I'm actually quite happy with them, so much so, I wouldn't begin to say which was my favourite.

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