Issue 40 (July 2013)
Once more, the sun came out.
It was brighter, you could tell even with closed eyes, but Aloy did not stir until he heard the dawn chorus. He had slept sitting down, facing a twelve foot wall with a window close to the ceiling. It was rectangular, roughly a foot wide and most likely barred. This was the only light source.
I’m off my bunk and into my jodhpurs, knee-high leather boots and flight jacket the moment the long range air attack klaxons seep into my nightly dream about Caracara.
Muscle memory and Secret Service training kick in; I’m on auto-pilot (no pun intended) and a good ways down the hall buttoning up both sides of my leather jacket to the shoulder a full thirty seconds before I’m awake.
It was October, the month of harvest, the month of blood. The cold Siberian winds blew from the North, lightly frosting the window with infinitesimal diamonds. A solitary figure stood by the moon window, staring past a blood-red wall of light towards the dark sewer called Mother Ocean.
Like most Lao ventures,
It began with a musing, a laugh
Around Rooster Year 2600, a jest:
“The modern Lao epic, Phra ROM Phra RAM!”