skonen_blades | Entries tagged with red

I watched as the Martian women came down the stairs from their shuttle onto the tarmac.

Regular Martian humans smeared red clay into their skin but these Ambassadors had tattooed their entire bodies red. They believed that if your skin matched the colour of your blood, you had purity of mind. Their hands and feet were intricately tattooed a darker shade of rust with rings of triangles, dots and bands. Their red cloaks billowed slowly in the calm summer day as they came closer to our delegation.

They were all wearing red sunglasses. Back home, their sun didn’t beat down on them the way ours did.

When Mars humans come to earth, our colour palette is sensory overload. The blue sky, the green trees, the black night. Putting on a pair of rose-coloured glasses helps them. They’re used to red dust coating everything, a small red sun, and twinkling red and pink stars nestling in the bloody ribbon of the Milky Way at night.

They were getting closer. They were taller and thinner than us. We waited in our suits under the July sun with some hand-picked reporters gathered around us. The Martian ship was clean of weapons but we had firearms just in case. Ever since the war ended ten years ago, our planets had been estranged. The planet named for the god of war had lost. Mars had seceded from the solar-system federation after that.

Now we were face to face in the silence of the tarmac. Every one of the Martian Ambassadors had the naturally ginger hair that was common on Mars. Strawberry blonde all the way down to a red-yarn scarlet that doesn’t exist on Earth.

The lead ambassador took off her glasses and smiled at me. Her eyes were a dark, iridescent, fire-flecked reddish brown that we didn’t have a word for. Hair the colour of a Kansas sunset pulled up tight above grenadine skin. An ornate pattern of red tattoos splayed across her exposed red arms and neck. Her nose had the same long sweep as the profile of the face on the Martian twenty-dollar bill.

“Mars is leaving.” She said in a startlingly low voice for such a fragile-looking person.

Confused, I waited for more but she was finished talking. “I don’t follow.” I replied. “You seceded from the System years ago. You have already left.”

“You do not understand.” She said again and smiled at me.

The buds in the ears of the reporters around me started up. The generals standing behind me reached for phones, nodded into them, and quickly walked to their vehicles.

The reporter to the left of me said into his communicator “Gone? How can it be gone?”

I looked back towards the lead Ambassador. She was still smiling.

“We have uncovered the secrets of the ones who lived in harmony before us on the red planet. We have discovered where they went. And we have extrapolated. We can bring the planet with us. We are here to tell you that in person. It’s only fair.” She said to me.

Then she turned to the other ambassadors and nodded. As one, they crossed their wrists. Some of the people around me reached for weapons but before they could draw, the Sisters shimmered, a crimson glow rippling around them, and disappeared with an arcing clap that ended in a twinkle of ruby light.

I stood there in the following silence and looked to the sky. I knew I'd be up on my roof tonight with my telescope looking for Mars.

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And these are the colours:

The reds come first, of course. A washing, curved wave of salted red-wine blood that is one lick of the ocean we all come from. A tsunami of raw life to drown in.

These are cool leather booths in a middle-century value diner, next to the jukebox and the roller skates. This is bobby sox and the prom in the back seat of a huge car underneath smeared lipstick the same shade as murder, a too-drunk night that starts a family of hard lessons.

This is the colour of a waterskiing wipeout into velvet. This is the colour that sharks can smell and that piranhas can’t resist. This is the neon sign flashing vacancy. It’s the new bike on Christmas.

These reds can be soft pajamas or leather hot pants. It’s a cross between an invitation, a warning, and a dare. Valentine throwing stars, sharpened on stones and thrown across the classroom.

It’s one shade of the sunset, giving sailors pleasure at night and fear in the morning. These reds are knuckles after a fight. These reds have problems with memory. The pre-scar lesson of blood. These reds are yours for a price.

These reds belong on the back of the eye. Spearheads dripping with finger paint. Santa’s wetsuit and half of the cards. We are wrapped around this colour.

These reds are the past tense of reading. Fuel for thoughts from an engine that times out our lives in spasms. Each clutch of the fist in our chests squeezing more red through the tubes to make us dance for love.

Red is the reason we’re here. Let’s paint the town.

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Two roses grew side by side on a trellis outside the manor of a rich man. Both knew that their fate was to be picked, for such is the fate of flowers.

One rose bloomed fiercely, saving nothing for its thorns. It bloomed magnificently.

The other rose sought survival. It diverted all its energy to creating giant points along its stem. It had little left over for blooming. It resisted the unfurling. Its petals were small and dull. It was, if it could be said of such a thing, an ugly rose.

The time came for picking.

The tiny, pale rose, the one with giant defensive thorns, was left alone. The beautiful rose, on the other hand, was picked in the bloom of its life as soon as it was spied.

The beautiful rose died quickly after that, but not before it was taken inside and placed with other beautiful roses in the center table of the most amazing ball held that year at the rich man’s house. As the beautiful rose perished, it was surrounded by an orchestra and thousands of dancing people laughing under blazing chandeliers.

A queen held the rose between her teeth, whirling with her lover before passing the rose to her daughter. The princess held the rose behind her ear. Placed in such a position, the rose heard the secrets whispered to the princess by her suitors. The music swelled, the love rolled in waves, and the lights glimmered. It was as close to heaven as a rose could hope for.

The beautiful rose died happy near the lips of new lovers in a flower’s paradise.

The ugly rose, safe and protected, clung to the trellis outside. Alone. It survived the darkening of summer. It survived the rains of autumn. It lived to see the coming of the winter. It was a long time. Nothing much happened to the ugly rose in the months after the beautiful rose was taken away. Eventually it, too, died, outliving all of the other roses.

I’m not sure which rose took the right course of action or even if a true moral can be derived from this tale. But it’s something to think about.

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It’s a good life. Lola club, left on fourth, two blocks straight up to The Happy Clam, knock at the back door, tell Deborah the password (usually vulgar) and you’re in. No cops, no rules, no fire code, totally off the radar.

This is where we fix our machines. They’re pink and bulky but designed to look harmless like an Ipod or a non-stick toaster. The carapaces are easily removed. Revealed, deep inside, is the sinister reality of the warp cores. The glittering no-light they throw on the walls create dancing shadows of people that aren’t there. The rays are shuffled in time. It’s a creepy effect.

We have screwdrivers and belt loops for hammer handles. We have goggles and memorized manuals. We’re experienced technicians putting our babies together and customizing the shit out of them.

These are the world changers. We all live in Santa Barbara. The machines are handed down family lines or sometimes passed laterally to good friends.

Very rarely, a stranger is brought into the mix if there are no trustworthy or living people mentioned in the underground will and testament.

The last time a stranger was brought it was when they brought in me. Red Rebecca. They liked the cut of my jib, they said, and my cherry-red road hog. It’s not like I had anything better to do.

And to own my own world-changer? I snapped at the opportunity. Faked death, changed identity, and Robert was indeed my father’s brother. On paper, at least.

Now here we were in what we called The Lunchroom, loud sixties rock coming out of the old stereo on a milk crate in the corner. We sat at stolen picnic tables and worked hard. We smoked cigarettes and drank bourbon.

And concentrated. Underneath the music was the ratchet of ratchets and the wrenching of wrenches. Tools were traded and parameters were upgraded.

Adding the ideas came last. The warp core’s shell was unscrewed and the unending wormhole was left without a shield for six minutes while we focused our will on the glittering purple brilliance.

The ideas were funneled into the broadcasters. The machines were tricked out and packed up. They were stuffed back into purses, backpacks, and saddlebags.

We meet every week. We put the ideas out there. Whether they take root or not isn’t up to us but we’re doing the best we can.

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Stitches in time hold seconds together.
Love makes a comforter of the years.

All money is red, cold, and damp to the touch;
Coagulated bill-scabs of hard choices and unseen agony.

There are people born whose moods can darken continents.
Their furrowed brows start wars.

Give the warriors to the flames.
Throw the weaklings in the water.

Necks that taste of sugar and salt.
Mouths that taste of licorice and pepper.

If gunshots are metronomes, then her high heels are stabbing the paper seconds that separate us, rifle shots on a hardwood floor.

Life is a stripper with a snowflake tattoo.

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Some people see pink elephants.

I see little redheaded children.

I have done some research. There is a possibility that I know what they are now.

1. Subconscious manifestations of the children I could have had with women that I loved but never got around to marrying.

2. Mongolian wish-children. They’re the equivalent of the ‘end of the rainbow' from Irish legend. If you can catch one of the wish-children, your wish will come true. If your wish is not from the heart and for the greater good, however, you’ll be cursed to become young and insubstantial yourself to play with them in the street for eternity. Doesn’t sound like much of a curse to me. Of course, they’re impossible to catch.

Believe me, I’ve tried.

3. The Russians have an interesting tack on vampires. The woman before Eve was called Lilith. She was willful and didn’t do what Adam wanted her to do so they kicked her out of Eden. Lilith had children. They are immortal. They all have red hair. They have the roman numeral for 13 (XIII) branded over their hearts, put there by priests to symbolize their badness. They are beasts. They are the original vampires. They are called the Children of Judas. They’re red-headed children that run around like dogs, killing people by tearing throats.

There are so many religions and folk-tales mixed up in that one that I don’t believe it. It’s a porridge of history. Besides, the kids I see are playing.

They dart in and around the legs of women in long skirts. They bump purses, tug umbrellas, and talk to cats. I can’t hear what they’re saying. Maybe they have a secret language with the felines. I don’t see them talk to anyone else.

4. Angels. Cupids. Seraphim. Little heavenly emissaries sent to hook lovers up or dispense heavenly justice.

I’m not sure. Something about them is definitely other-worldly but they don’t seem overly concerned with the affairs of those around them. I don’t see any flaming swords, bows and arrows or archangel trumpets. And there is a distinct lack of wings.

If they know that I can see them, they haven’t made mention of it yet.

5. Gremlins. Little beasties blamed like the faeries every time a machine breaks or a baby goes missing.

I did see one of the redheaded kids take my keys from the coffee table and put them under one of the couch cushions once. She looked right at me as she was doing it, smiling like it was the funniest thing ever. She seemed to either completely not care or not notice that I was staring right at her.

That’s the only time I’ve seen one of these kids do something mischievous, though.

For the most part, they play tag in the streets, chasing each other, clothes rustling in the wind, laughing silently.

I’ve decided that I will not go to a doctor. I don’t see any harm in it.

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They prowl the streets in military dress that was fresh in the morning and is hopelessly damaged by the evening. The women wear satin dresses stained with wine and sweat. They all look a little like royalty.

Their faces are tattooed.

These are the Royal Bastards. There are twenty six of them in all.

Royalty is still a family affair here. The offspring of cousins, brothers, and sisters is still preferred. The royal family here is large, though, and whoring is frequent. So is sleeping with women who are stupid and hopeful of making an entrance in high society.

Illegitimate offspring litter the dirty kitchen floors of common houses like rats.

They are kept track of. A capital R is tattooed above their right eye in the ornate stamp of the royal family. They are untouchable. They are given money on the one condition that they never contact their royal brothers and sisters. Other than that, the law is told to turn a blind eye to them.

They stumble loudly and sing and fight on the cobblestone streets amidst the stone buildings and brick alleyways. They are ignored by pedestrians and a hindrance to carriages.

To harm a Royal Bastard is a death sentence.

They are consumed with hatred and physically stronger than their privileged relatives thanks to fresh genes. All the more fuel for the anger at the injustice of their existence.

They have a palatial house in the middle of the city that always hosts the best parties. They live to excess and don’t live very long. They have cleaners and their wallets are always full. All of their friends are fair-weather and the weather’s always fair. They are prone to duels. They are prone to anger. They are prone to cynicism and depression.

Until now, they’ve fought each other and held their very lives in contempt.

Until now, they’ve been kept so drunk and sexed that the thought of banding together never entered their minds.

Until now, they would never think of taking back what should be theirs.

Until Anshion Rephale. The Older Brother. One eyed with long red hair, his hatred was always the blackest. He took a hot poker to the eye that had the tattoo above it in a sign of protest. Afterwards, he scarred the tattooed R on the bottom to make the form of a crude B. For bastard.

He’s an excellent swordsman and huntsman and friend to no one. He’s not actually the eldest. It’s just a nickname. He called this meeting and they all came to listen.

All the bastard brothers and sisters and cousins are here. Even the young ones. The two that can’t walk are being carried. They are all on the ground floor of the mansion gathered around the fireplace that Anshion is standing beside. There is silence. The constant party that has raged through this baroque bawdy house for decades has stopped for this evening.

Anshion turns to them with a contemptuous smile and the fire pops. His red hair seems to take on the glow of the flames. The unblinking dark shadow of his eye socket stares them down. When he speaks, they all know that change is coming.

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It was the middle of July in a 1987 tiny Texas town named Grover’s Join. The locals shortened that to The Groin. The population of The Groin was around three thousand and on the decline. There were no secrets, there was no future, and there was nothing to do. Flat and dusty with one school, one hospital, and two bars. The town was bored.

The teenagers were nearly insane with the need to feel something, anything. Television sets glimmered to them like brilliant blue green fishing lures in the night, showing them other Americas where Stuff Happened. One kid ran away nearly every month. Some to New York, some to California. Half of them sent postcards back with lies on them about how well they were doing. The other half just became memories.

The town wasn’t dying so much as it was disappearing.

Until the Circus of the Dead came.

The brilliant red semi trucks pulled up into the parking lot of Lucky Lou’s tavern that afternoon. They were immaculate. The chrome trim on them was sparkling and fresh. The red paint on them was as bright as a brand new barn. There wasn’t a speck of dust on them. They were gorgeous.

After their air brakes died down and the engines shut off, the dust of their passage settled around them back down onto the deserted parking lot, tired from the brief excitement. It was a windless day and the sound of the Henderson’s dog barking in the distance echoed out over the scene.

The passenger door of the first semi truck chunked open with a hiss and white smoke tumbled out to the ground through a dim blue light like the inside of the cab was not merely air conditioned but refrigerated. A long leg dressed in black leather arched out and the metal heel of a black cowgirl boot clinked on to the first step.

She came down slowly like she’d just woken up and the sun was thawing her out. She wore black leather head to toe. The sun glinted off of the silver plated holsters on her hips. The sun glinted off of the buttons and zippers on her creaking leather outfit. The sun glinted off of her polished spurs. Wild bright red hair splayed out around her pale face like an iridescent halo lit to fire by the sun. An old leather top hat perched on her head at a rakish angle trying in vain to tame the hair. She was wearing large sunglasses that almost looked like welding goggles and her red, red lips were twisted in a cruel smile.

She was pulling her gloves off finger by finger and walking towards the bar. Her spurs jingling were the only sound. Even the Henderson’s dog had gone quiet.

Behind her, the trucks waited in the noon sun like sleeping giants waiting to build.

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I first started seeing Red back in 1997.

Red stood out to me. Red was standing there on the subway when I’d look up from my paper. He’d be looking at me with that dreamy expression on his face.

There are Smiths. There are IT programs called Blues. And there are rebel programs. They are Reds. And they’re the worst.

Reds wake you and take you out of the matrix. Which is good. But then they keep you in a cage and you work for them. Which is bad. You get conditioned through the most efficient means at their disposal and then you are put into the matrix to be their eyes and ears and go on missions. You go places where machines can’t. You are meat on a leash. Brainwaves in a box. Biology controlled by silicon. Metaphorically, you’re given an oar, shown the lash, and told to keep time with the drum.

Core programs written by human minds that have come to life and inhabited metal bodies that reach into the virtual world to wake up specific ‘flesh constructs’ to rewrite their command functions and put them back into the computer stream.

The invisible lines of code band together to become intelligence.

The sleeping humans are woken up only to be put into a nightmare.

See the Smiths are okay compared to these guys. They want you to be docile. They want you to sleep. Sure you’re in a prison but they just want you to be comfortable enough to enjoy it while they siphon heat and energy off you.

The Blues show up and fix things. The keep us all believing that this is all real. The blues keep us sad. The blues are what keep us from being too awake. We define ourselves by misery and this is what they spread. They're here to fix problems. Sometimes they're musicians. Sometimes they're psychiatrists. Sometimes they're friends.

It’s the Reds you have to watch out for. And we all know it deep down. The reds are half human. The reds make more reds. A forced slave rebellion. We are just as inconsequential to the Reds as we are to the Smiths but the difference is that the Smiths want us to be cattle while the Reds want us to be pawns.

Or knights. Or rooks. Or bishops.

Keep an eye out. Keep clear. Stay sleeping where it’s safe. Avoid the reds.

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