Poem: "The Transformations of Terror"
Nov. 19th, 2009 01:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysabetwordsmithThanks to a new donation, "The Transformations of Terror" has been fully funded! (This came via PayPal and I don't recognize the sender, so I've asked for the LJ username.) Donors include ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
janetmiles, stonetalker, wolfbrotherjoe, and lord_caramac. I have pasted the whole poem below; you may also backtrack to the original page if you wish.
Something to consider: When I wrote "The Transformations of Terror," I started out with past tense and then switched to present tense. Do you think this poem would work better if I revised it to all present tense? Take a look at the whole thing and let me know what you think.
Now, it just so happens that there's more to this storyline that what appears in "The Transformations of Terror." So far I have written a second poem, "What the Starships Do Not Know," revealing some information that appeared only in the notes for the first one. It is available at standard fishbowl pricing: 32 lines, Buy It Now = $15. I have ideas for a third poem, which will probably be longish, but I haven't written that one yet. If you're enjoying this storyline and would like to see more, there is a donation button on my profile page (or you can contact me for other arrangements).
There was one transformation they all feared.
Nobody wanted to transform into a starship.
Oh, they weren’t afraid of heights –
They all loved to fly.
They weren’t afraid of space –
They would orbit happily in station form.
They weren’t afraid of travel –
They could drive quite gladly around the whole planet.
But they weren’t alone.
And they knew that.
And they knew IT was out there,
High up in the thin aethyr of hyperspace
Where they had to go if they wanted to get out of the system.
They knew IT was there,
Waiting for them.
The transformation itself is quite ordinary:
The shifting of wings and rocket pipes,
Legs tucking up to broaden the base of the body,
Head slipping forward to become the bridge.
Even the delicate internal assembly of the stardrive itself
Comes together as naturally as crystals forming.
But they don’t want to jump in.
It’s worse than the first dive
After learning to become a submarine,
When the water seems to gleam with an evil threat.
This time they know what is waiting for them.
The ones who steel themselves for the journey
Find themselves facing IT at once:
The slick sinuous mass of IT makes them queasy
Right down to their reactor cores.
At first IT just hangs there, folding into and out of itself
Like a tesseract made of meat.
Then IT senses them and surges forward,
Faster than they can imagine,
And they cannot flee although they always try.
They can scan IT undulating as it approaches,
Tentacles uncoiling to reach for them,
Suckers moist and pulsating.
They try not to scream as IT clamps on,
But that’s hard,
Especially when IT covers their sensors
Leaving them deaf and blind
To the whole journey through hyperspace
So that they have to trust the coordinates
Uploaded ever-so-carefully into the pilot-drive.
All they can do is pray
And try not to think of what’s happening
And remind themselves that this will be over eventually.
Finally, finally,
The suckers slop away from the hull
And the scanners are clear of everything except slime
And the awful trip is finished
So that they can dive into the atmosphere
And let the cleansing fire of reentry burn away all traces
Except for the memories they cannot forget
No matter how many times they try to delete the files.
They go about their business, then,
As submarines and shipping vehicles and jet planes,
Reveling in safer forms of motion.
Some of them return to space
And hang content as stations curled up in a comfy LaGrange couch.
But sooner or later,
They have to take downtime,
Have to let their busy minds rest and recover
From the challenges of life.
Then it hits them – then the nightmares come.
There is no escaping them.
Over and over they suffer the same terrifying transformation
Into a starship and the quivering leap into hyperspace.
Over and over they relive the horrible stroking of their sensors,
Their vents, and their tightly latched apertures as IT probes them.
Over and over they suffer blindness, deafness,
And the creeping certainty of something striving to reach them,
Right into the central braindrive where the soul resides.
Telling who’s been a starship is always easy:
They’re the ones
Who wake up screaming.
As far as the records show, IT has never hurt anyone.
But nobody believes that.
Ships do get lost sometimes,
Gone without a trace,
Swallowed by hyperspace.
Everyone who has ever seen IT
Knows who to blame.
janetmiles, stonetalker, wolfbrotherjoe, and lord_caramac. I have pasted the whole poem below; you may also backtrack to the original page if you wish. Something to consider: When I wrote "The Transformations of Terror," I started out with past tense and then switched to present tense. Do you think this poem would work better if I revised it to all present tense? Take a look at the whole thing and let me know what you think.
Now, it just so happens that there's more to this storyline that what appears in "The Transformations of Terror." So far I have written a second poem, "What the Starships Do Not Know," revealing some information that appeared only in the notes for the first one. It is available at standard fishbowl pricing: 32 lines, Buy It Now = $15. I have ideas for a third poem, which will probably be longish, but I haven't written that one yet. If you're enjoying this storyline and would like to see more, there is a donation button on my profile page (or you can contact me for other arrangements).
The Transformations of Terror
There was one transformation they all feared.
Nobody wanted to transform into a starship.
Oh, they weren’t afraid of heights –
They all loved to fly.
They weren’t afraid of space –
They would orbit happily in station form.
They weren’t afraid of travel –
They could drive quite gladly around the whole planet.
But they weren’t alone.
And they knew that.
And they knew IT was out there,
High up in the thin aethyr of hyperspace
Where they had to go if they wanted to get out of the system.
They knew IT was there,
Waiting for them.
The transformation itself is quite ordinary:
The shifting of wings and rocket pipes,
Legs tucking up to broaden the base of the body,
Head slipping forward to become the bridge.
Even the delicate internal assembly of the stardrive itself
Comes together as naturally as crystals forming.
But they don’t want to jump in.
It’s worse than the first dive
After learning to become a submarine,
When the water seems to gleam with an evil threat.
This time they know what is waiting for them.
The ones who steel themselves for the journey
Find themselves facing IT at once:
The slick sinuous mass of IT makes them queasy
Right down to their reactor cores.
At first IT just hangs there, folding into and out of itself
Like a tesseract made of meat.
Then IT senses them and surges forward,
Faster than they can imagine,
And they cannot flee although they always try.
They can scan IT undulating as it approaches,
Tentacles uncoiling to reach for them,
Suckers moist and pulsating.
They try not to scream as IT clamps on,
But that’s hard,
Especially when IT covers their sensors
Leaving them deaf and blind
To the whole journey through hyperspace
So that they have to trust the coordinates
Uploaded ever-so-carefully into the pilot-drive.
All they can do is pray
And try not to think of what’s happening
And remind themselves that this will be over eventually.
Finally, finally,
The suckers slop away from the hull
And the scanners are clear of everything except slime
And the awful trip is finished
So that they can dive into the atmosphere
And let the cleansing fire of reentry burn away all traces
Except for the memories they cannot forget
No matter how many times they try to delete the files.
They go about their business, then,
As submarines and shipping vehicles and jet planes,
Reveling in safer forms of motion.
Some of them return to space
And hang content as stations curled up in a comfy LaGrange couch.
But sooner or later,
They have to take downtime,
Have to let their busy minds rest and recover
From the challenges of life.
Then it hits them – then the nightmares come.
There is no escaping them.
Over and over they suffer the same terrifying transformation
Into a starship and the quivering leap into hyperspace.
Over and over they relive the horrible stroking of their sensors,
Their vents, and their tightly latched apertures as IT probes them.
Over and over they suffer blindness, deafness,
And the creeping certainty of something striving to reach them,
Right into the central braindrive where the soul resides.
Telling who’s been a starship is always easy:
They’re the ones
Who wake up screaming.
As far as the records show, IT has never hurt anyone.
But nobody believes that.
Ships do get lost sometimes,
Gone without a trace,
Swallowed by hyperspace.
Everyone who has ever seen IT
Knows who to blame.
