Lucas and Carolyn use EB Radio as the prompt for this
Carolyn’s EB Livestream Result January 13, 2019:
We have come to the old cemetery,
crayons and paper in hand, scalpels for the lichen,
brushes for the grit--so many slate headstones,
their skulls and carven wings, so much ash and dust,
and four hundred years peace,
a baker’s dozen generations of children
come to wax over the names and pull dandelions
from the weedy plots, run sticks over the railings,
and dream of the river a quarter mile
across the field, the sizzle of the campfires
steady along its silty banks.
The seasons become as messy as the waves,
bleeding into each other, ebbing a little higher,
a little lower on the beach, folding,
stretched and consumed by the undertow.
The timing hasn’t gone wrong, but
the way we’re using the time has—
too fast, churning our days into foam
when we used to have flat rollers.
At the back of the bay, mussels
and barnacles entomb themselves—
do they still believe the tide will turn?
If all things change--and nothing is static,
where do we set our stones?
Knowing our time in the low tide,
the dry wait while the river curls away,
do we build our castles and our crypts
on the hill or in the plain?
We are blind to the dragons that
live in the rising seas--carefree
in the ultimatum, walking through a laugh,
and that might not be so bad.
Would I rather live long enough
to feel the wave reach up,
write my epitaph in the wet sand,
and watch it fade--or go on swimming,
treading the deep, and brave the below?
Lucas’s Result from 1.13.19
He emptied the sharpener out in the small bin near his fish tank. Pencil shavings fluttered down into the basket, releasing the satisfying aroma of shaved wood and ground graphite. This was probably the third time that he had emptied the sharpener. Henry had lost count. He tended to get caught up in his work. Some called it tunnel vision. He liked to call it following his muse. Satisfied that all of the shavings had been cleared (Henry kept a toothbrush on a nearby table to aid him), Henry clapped the metal casing shut and sharpened his number 2. Ah yes, that was a good point, it was time to get back to work.
He sat at his desk in the corner of his apartment. Sun warmed the wooden floor and various decorations that he had strewn about. Some might have called the stacks of newspapers and photos lining the walls junk. Henry preferred to think of them as precious mementos. Instead of wasting his time in the evening by watching television or surfing social media, Henry found all of his necessary pleasure by examining the grainy photos that he had managed to gather and by meticulously jumping from word to word lining the pages of the newspaper articles.
The words truly transported him, Henry always found new meaning in the syntax and the rhythm. “Back Bay Bomber Strikes Again,” read one article. Henry remembered that one quite well. His first job had gone relatively unnoticed, but the police had tipped the reporter from the Times off that they’d been tracking some “Back Bay Guy.” Henry had scored three kills on that one. It really had been quite daring. A bundle of C4, tossed in the luggage area under a bus. Henry had made sure his note that he had worked on so hard had survived by sealing it in a titanium box with a key welded next to it.
Now, his next job was coming up. His biggest one yet. He loved public transportation. All of the bustle. All of the stories converging in one place. Desperate mothers pulling their children by their shirtsleeves. Loners and lovers. Perhaps even killers on their way to their own scores. But they would never make it. Not if Henry had anything to do with it. The explosives were prepped. Henry’s biggest payload yet. Enough to derail the Amtrak. Henry signed off on his note. “Love, The Back Bay Bomber” and closed and locked the box. He grabbed his luggage and locked the door. His Uber was waiting to take him to the station.