The nature of reality.
I stood alone on the edge; then the world changed, and reality fled, what was knowing became doubt, what was certainty became unclear. my problem was not knowing, My mind was blank, and my muscles relaxed, just as I was taught. Then knowing flowed and the edge receded. Clarity and certainty followed the knowing I awoke and found my journey done. The robot surgeon said I was cured, now obedience was my creed. All is well with the world, and I believe every word.
About the Creator
Peter Rose
Collections of "my" vocal essays with additions, are available as printed books ASIN 197680615 and 1980878536 also some fictional works and some e books available at Amazon;-
amazon.com/author/healthandfunpeterrose
.
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A flight alone
A flight alone A flight into history So far so good, take off had been smooth, far better than expected. The angle and rate of climb had been exactly as predicted and all the instruments were reading just what we wanted them to. So why did I have this uneasy feeling, this slight apprehension, and a worry that all is not as it seems. An old adage from the motor racing world is that if everything is under control, you are not going fast enough; add this to the notions of “sods” law, that what can go wrong, will go wrong; mix this with the military saying that when things are going right, it is the time to expect trouble. There are so many sayings usually buried away deep in the memory, but when you have this “gut” feeling then they come to the fore. I double checked all the data, even viewed the recorded information about the take-off, all looked fine. The extreme stealth systems and the construction of this craft, designed to keep me safe from the high energy radiation at extreme altitudes, means I have no radio communication with base, and it also means they cannot track me by radar or any other technique. I was alone traveling so fast and so high that I was almost into the Magnetosphere. My mission, and the intention of the billions of dollars spent to get me here, is to see if we can manipulates the magnetic fields in such a way that it influences condition on the earth’s surface. The obvious sensitivity of this mission was another factor in the radio silence.
By Peter Roseabout a year ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins6 days ago in Fiction
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