a simple man

(Repetitive) Poetry

I sojourned down to Barnes & Noble for my weekly poetry meet up with Stephen Fry (oh how I wish I could actually meet up with Fry to write poetry!). It was a cool, crisp fall morning, just perfect in every way.

Today’s poetry is a continuance of the rigid forms I have been exploring, with repetitions and rhyme schemes and convoluted processes. It sounds burdensome, but when you get into writing within the form, it can be quite fun to see the poem unfold. Today I have two (one is quite long, which is why I only have two): the sestina and the pantoum which my spell check wants to correct into phantom. Anyway, the sestina repeats ending words in a specific pattern at length followed by a three line Envoi that includes all six ending words in a set pattern. There is no official metre, though I have chosen iambic trimeter for my sestina. There isn’t a rhyme scheme, other than the way repeating words might be said to rhyme. As given to me by my friend Bobby Callaway, the theme of my sestina was “double” whatever that may mean to me.

Double

I wash my face and stare
into the frosty mirror.
What I see there scares me,
or is it me I see?
It could be him that looks
at me from out that glass.

I wipe and clean the glass
and start to climb the stairs.
From each picture a look
at me as if a mirror.
Each one is tossed, a sea
of thoughts churning in me.

I want to know: who’s me?
My soul’s fragile, like glass.
The cracks that form, I see,
I lose my gaze, I stare:
each one a hundred mirrors.
I am compelled to look.

Within each crack, a look,
a gaze, another me.
Each one another mirror.
Am I hollow as glass?
Do they, at me, all stare?
All this I can’t un-see.

But now that this I’ve seen,
I’ll take another look.
With new purpose I stare
into the eyes of each me
and find, as clear as glass,
the clear answer in’th mirror.

I’m me and him, mirrored,
each self that I have seen
in every single glass
a different side, new looks
at the same old, same me
at whom each day I stare.

Envoi

Into the mirror I look
And now just see just me
into the glass I stare.

So there you have it: a sestina. By nature, a long poem as it takes time to work through all the ways the end words may be jumbled. It can continue indefinitely, but with each sixth paragraph it starts to repeat the way the lines end.

Onto the next, the pantoum. The pantoum has an endless number of four line stanzas, each line composed of 8 syllables, and ending with a rhyme scheme of ABAB BABA etc. At least, it should rhyme, but it doesn’t have to. Additionally, starting after the first stanza, the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next stanza until the poem ends, in which case the first and third lines of the first stanza become the second and fourth lines of the last stanza. The explanation will perhaps be clearer with my example. The repetition and rhyme often lends itself to solemn themes, so I have chose the Battle of Hoth, from Star Wars: the Empire Strikes Back as my theme.

Invasion: Hoth

It’s a cold, snowy day on Hoth
The battle lines are drawn in snow.
Lord Darth Vader, all black and goth:
fear in the hearts of rebels grows.

The battle lines are drawn in snow,
The Imperials cut a swath.
Fear in the hearts of rebels grows
of troopers, white visigoths.

The Imperials cut a swath
Vader at their head, a black crow,
and troopers, white visigoths,
rebel blood in red icicles flows.

Vader at their head, a black crow,
Lord Darth Vader, all black and goth,
Rebel blood in red icicles flows:
it’s a cold, snowy day on Hoth.

This pantoum is fun, a bit like a villanelle, but to my mind and poetical sensibilities, a bit easier to pull off.

I hope you have enjoyed this week’s poetical musings, with all their repetitions and fun-ness. I certainly have. Until next week, then…

An Ode to Odes

It was cold and rainy as I made my weekly trek to Barnes and Noble, a perfect fall day. On the trees the leaves were changing and in the air there was a crispness. I felt juvenated and alive. I sat down at a large table in the back of B&N and took out my copy of the Ode Less Traveled and began to read and write.

Today’s forms included the many types of odes. These days an ode can refer to any kind of poetry, but there are specific forms that are “proper” odes. Among those I attempted the sapphic ode, the pindaric ode, and the horation ode. A sapphic ode is usually written with three stanzas, and each stanza is composed of four lines, three of iambic tetrameter and one of iambic dimeter. I say usually because there are many variations possible within the form, but as described is the classic form.

An Ode to Stormtrooper Armor

All gleaming white, the armor stands,
the black insidious eyes do stare.
It clothes the Empire’s ruthless bands;
should just be bare.

It takes a hit, a hole appears;
the soldier dies, a flash of light
upon the chest: what poor career
the choice, a blight.

Why wear the armor bright? It yields
no benefit. The man beneath
just groans and dies. Bury him in fields
of green, the heath.

A pindaric ode is written in three stanzas. Each has a function, and while overall the meter is variable, each stanza must be composed identically in form. I chose to write each stanza with four lines of iambic dimiter, trimeter, tetrameter, and pentameter in ascending order. This ode need not rhyme. Actually, no odes need to rhyme as odes are originally a Roman thing, and there isn’t much rhyme outside of English.

An Ode to Stormtroopers

Strophe (Turn)

All hail!
the brave, the few, the true,
an Empire’s legion: stormtroopers.
They fight and die to win the Empire’s day.

Antistrophe (Counter Turn)

But they
cannot take aim or shoot
a straight and forward beam of light
at their targets, through “crack” and “best” they be.

Epode (the Stand)

Perhaps:
secret rebel dreams hold
behind their masks of white and black
to let the heroes live to fight back.

Then there is the Horation ode, which is much like the pindaric ode where the prevailing method of the form is that it remain consistent to each stanza. I chose three lines of iambic trimeter and one line of iambic pentameter. Just because.

An Ode to Barnes & Noble

I love thy smell of books
and coffee commingled in’th’ air
I love thy stacks and rows
of history, humor

of toys and games and Nook
the digital book for all
and desks at which to sit
to read and write a poem

There are a few other odes, some proper, some not, but due to the variability and required subject matter, I skipped them.

Lastly I moved to other forms and attempted a villanelle, which is a fun, favorite form that I love to try. A villanelle has no set meter, but does have a set rhyme scheme in which certain lines repeat. Usually it is A1BA2, ABA1, ABA2, ABA1, ABA2, ABA1A2.

An Villanelle Ode to Baseball

Baseball is a many pleasured thing:
the ball that buzzes, the bat that cracks;
it starts after the anthem rings.

Pitcher fires the ball, batter takes a swing,
he hits a double with a mighty thwack!
Baseball is a many pleasured thing.

The runner’s picked off, a sneaky sting.
He jogs to the dugout, bent back.
It starts after the anthem rings.

The submariner a curveball slings,
the batter whiffs, the ball glove smacks.
Baseball is a many pleasured thing.

The centre fielder to the wall springs,
he leaps and makes the catch at the track:
it starts after the anthem rings.

It all can change with just a swing,
a swift strike or a homer bat crack,
baseball is a many pleasured thing:
it starts after the anthem rings.

As usual, I claim no greatness or mastery, unless it be of fun and adherence to form. I do my best to enjoy the process of writing and sharing poetry, and leave greatness to the eventual tinkering and adjusting that is editing and the time that is the measure of all things. I only hope you enjoy reading my poems as much as I enjoy sharing them.

Pop Culture Poesy

This week I did make it to Barnes and Noble, I am merely late in posting about it. I went earlier in the day than I normally do, and perhaps as a result, my normal table was occupied. I was forced to find a table at the local Starbucks-in-a-bookstore that almost all Barnes and Nobles have these days. It wasn’t entirely unconducive to poetry work, though it was a bit louder than I am used to, more idle conversation less quietly browsing of the stacks.

This week’s poetical musings are in the form of the ballad and heroic verse. The ballad is written in a variety of standards, but most popular is one with alternating lines of iambic tetrameter and trimeter and a rhyme scheme of ABAB. Heroic verse is not mostly about Iron Man and Batman, but is in fact a simple iambic pentameter with a rhyme scheme of AABBCCDD.

This week I decided to dedicate my poetical notions to Star Wars.

The Ballad of Luke and Leia

Now gather round and let me tell
the tale of Luke and Leia.
The sandborne son, the Alderaan belle
their love, it’s true, a fluke.

Never had he known love at all
and she was much too busy
He knew only sand and droids tall
She knew politik privy

But she fell in with Imper’al types
and he came to her rescue
then they did kiss, an act most hyped
not knowing they were askew

For he was her long lost brother
and she was his own sister
then they will help discovered the other
still he, yet twice, had kissed her.

It won’t light the world on fire, but I find it amusing enough. Of note, my rhyme scheme is ABAC, and in the first stanza it really should “Leia and Luke” but it just sounds better the other way around, to me at least. Now: to my heroic verse.

Obi-Wan’s Confession

Dear Luke, I must confess to you a truth:
a move I made for your fam’ly in youth.
The move’s become a mistake you must now know
Before this ill advised, ill love can grow.
Your knowledge is not complete, I must tell
you things you need to know, this love to quell.
A single child you are not, now nor ever
have been. You have a sibling. If you’re clever
you will know of whom I speak to you…
Yes. True. The one I mean is your new boo,
the one you have now kissed: your sister.
Shall we now chalk it up to this, you missed her?

Again, nothing very profound or even that good, but again, it amuses me. I had trouble with the rhymes in this and the ballad, but I did my best. Some are obvious, some are clunky, but at least all rhyme. I do, however, like this idea of adapting pop culture to old poetical forms. I think I will continue to do so. Until next time, do enjoy!

Offerings

I almost didn’t go to my weekly get away to Barnes and Noble, but I pushed myself to go and I am so glad I did. It was a beautiful evening, one of the last we will have this year most likely, and the drive from my apartment to the bookstore with the windows down and the breeze blowing by was just perfect. I even got an idea for one of my poems on the way there.

Today’s offerings coming in the form of: the rubai, which is at least a twelve line poem with the rhyme scheme AABA, CCDC, EEFE and so on; the Rime Royal which is a seven line poem with the rhyme scheme ABABBCC; and the Ottiva Rima which is an eight line poem with a rhyme scheme of ABABABCC, and which is very similar to the Rime Royal. In that order I give you today’s poems. I written the first two in iambic pentameter, and the last in trochaic pentameter for those of you who know what that means (or remember from a previous posting.) Anyhow, after much ado, the poems. For real now.

Summer

The smell of fries upon the afternoon air,
it makes me hungry for a burger. Fare
with which I fill my summer stomach full
of times without a trouble or a care

The laughing little children remind me
of a simpler, an uncomplicated mead
to down and quench the thirst of adventure
of climbed trees, swum holes, and scraped knees

Oh, Ah! The summer time it tastes so sweet!
A truck rumbles with melody down the street
its back so full of treats and iced creams
the perfect thing to make the even’ complete.

Lament for Lars

Stark white stormtroopers swarm the moisture farm
they look for droids of blue and white and gold
the minions of an Empire mean them harm
Alas! for them to whom the droids been sold
Oh Uncle Owen tries the droids withhold
but blaster fire and death is his reward
as Owen, Beru burn in the courtyard.

Literary Snob

Night has fallen over rows of bookshelves
Among poets, authors, and the restless
I would say that we have lost ourselves.
At least these books have worth unlike artless
hordes of barbaric souls who pride themselves
having read the crummy soul-less awe-less
pulped fiction that’s all the rage these days
I wish I could burn them all in a blaze!

Ok, so that last one makes with some eye rhymes (words that look like they rhyme when they don’t really) and they all play a bit loose with the meter, but it was the best I could come up with at the time. Remember, these are but practice and folly. I make no claims to poetical greatness. I have fun writing and attempting the forms. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Adazzle!

My pup is sitting on top of my knapsack, clearly miffed that she can’t sit on the keyboard of my Macbook Pro. I am here typing up my latest poetical offerings from my weekly sojourn to Barnes & Noble. I am starting to really enjoy my time spent there, reading and writing poetry. Today’s poems included syllabic verse, and two poetical forms, the terza rima and the quatrain.

Syllabic verse, most famous of which is the haiku, is poetry based on number of syllables per line as opposed to metrical feet or stresses or what have you. I wrote two syllabic verse poems, one on rain, the other on hygiene, topics as suggested by my muse, Stephen Fry of The Ode Less Traveled. The first poem is written with alternating lines of 5 and 7 syllables. You can work out for yourself the syllab count of the second poem.

Rain

Gently falling from the sky
staining the dry ground
with dripping drops of moisture
the clouds seem to cry

But to weep or not to weep
the rain is welcome
farmers rejoice to see water
around their crops seep

Hygiene

It starts with
a gentle scrubbing of
me
from head to toe
teeth, hair, skin, nails
brush’d
now I’m clean enough for
society.

External
cleanliness is only
part
of the story
how does one scrub the inner you
from filthy things?
start
not by drinking draino
it won’t work.

I amuse myself thusly. Anyway, I then went on to formal poetry, that is poems adhering to a form, the most famous of which is probably the sonnet. I played around with terza rima, a poetical form that alternates rhymes at the end of the lines in an ABA BCB CC pattern. My terza rima was written in iambic pentameter on the subject of World War Two.

Untitled

The greatest generation: historically
they fought and died to save the world from sin.
The wars, once won, they danced euphorically.
We shudder, thinking what might have been
if Germany had won the war of wars.
Might we now march to songs of Hitler’s din?
But all our praise to women, men, the corps
who fought and died. To them we raise a chorus.

Not very good, perhaps, but it adheres to the form and it rhymes, at least partly. Lastly I wrote two quatrains, a poem with a rhyme scheme of ABAB in any number of stanzas, also in iambic pentameter.

This Town

Just one Post Office, a single stop light
banks: three, churches: four, a people: one.
Though old and worn our town is full and bright;
it is the best old town we love under the sun.

Poesy

A poem is hard to write in meter and rhyme
to sort the accented syllabs and foots
it takes much thought and lots and lots of time
the page gets covered in pencil soot

As the poet writes and carefully rewrites the lines
when one, like gold, is writ it is like loot
pulled from vault or chest, a most heinous crime
of literary kind, but hark! the poem takes root!

Again, not very good, but that isn’t the point at the moment. The point is to adhere to form and that I have done. By the way, as I have used it twice now, syllab is my non-word word for syllable. I always thought it could use a shortened form. And the title for this post, “adazzle” means “glitteringly bright” and was a new word that I came across in my reading today. I learned it and now I share it with you.

Great god Poesy

I spent another evening at Barnes and Noble, reading and writing poetry. I had fun with anapests and dactyls and Anglo-Saxon poetry. I am constantly reminded how much I love poetry, in all its various forms and delicious iterations.

While these poems that I present are not very polished, or very perfect, I find them fun and delightful. Mostly these are practice poems for different techniques and methods. Enjoy them as such.

This first poem is written in anapestic hexameter. That means that each section of the poem is written with two unaccented syllables followed by one accented. Hexameter refers to the number of sections in the line, in this case, six sections. Despite the long lines, this is still a poem and not a block of prose.

Directions to Home

From the twelve, take a turn past the Toys R US straight on down straight as you go
Do not turn to the left or the right, resist Dunkin Doughnuts as you pass,
Right turn, Glacier Hills Apartments is your destination. Now find a spot.
When you’re parked, ring the bell, or call me, and I will let you into the room.

This second poem is written in dactylic pentameter. A dactyl is the inverse of a anapest, which means one accented syllable followed by two unaccented syllables. Pentameter refers to the number of sections in the line, in this case, five sections. In actual fact in this poem, the first four sections are dactyls, the last is a spondee which is two accented syllables in a row. This poem is broken up into six lines, but is actually a three line poem. I think it looks better, and breaks up the rhythm ever so slightly, to put the spondee on its own line. Nevertheless, it is to be read continuously from each line to the the next.

Cows

Mooing in darkness now, cows all ’round chewing the
green cud.
Black and white, horned and spotted beasts bovine in
nature,
Deadly to grass and wheat. Even better to me when
hamburger.

This last poem is in Anglo-Saxon verse. Anglo-Saxon verse, in this case, is comprised of alliteration in three accented syllables and one accented syllable of a non-alliterated syllable.

To Eat or Not

No green gabled broccoli or gagh* for me.
I wouldn’t mind ice cream instead of pie,
Though punkin is peachy and perfectly fine,
Pizza is always a perfect pie, I’ve found.
I don’t mind doughnuts, but dumplings are out.
Chicken is choice when children shout for nuggets.
Burgers with bold bacon and cheese,
Are favorite, fun and fantastic to me.
I don’t know now what I’ll nom tonight
Probably popcorn or peas, something random.

Each topic here was suggested by the book I’m working through, The Ode Less Traveled by Stephen Fry. He always finds fun topics to focus on for the practice poetry, in this case directions to my place of residence, cows, and what I’d like to eat or not. Until next time…

*gagh is a Klingon dish. Read about it here.

Poems for the Poetical

I spent my evening at Barnes and Noble, a surprisingly quiet place to hang out, and worked through more of Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Traveled. Here follows a few moderately good poems borne of the exercises that he suggested. As you might be able to tell, the subject was television. Enjoy.

Star Trek: Enterprise

They trek through stars in ships and pods
They beam and fight and talk and look
At blue Andorians, it’s true!
And pointy-eared Vulcan soldiers.

They meet a Tellerite trader,
The Borg, though they should not yet be
And the father of the fathers
of Data and Lore: Doctor Soong.

Chuck

Bartowski, Sarah, and Morgan,
John Casey, Gen’ral Beckman.
It’s Chuck: the nerd, the spy, the man.
He fixes PC’s and

The world when its at risk by spies
And Fulcrum, Ring, and Volkov.
It’s Chuck: the man, the nerd, the spy
Who wins each day and night!

Bones

Bones and Booth, her mind his guns,
Solve the grisly and the grossest
Crimes that hit Virginia, D.C.
Squinterns/Sweets helps as well. Sometimes.

Bones never lie, they tell the truthly
Story of each crime. They, the bones,
Justice want and crave so mightily.
They cry: “Save us, clean us, of Sin!”

I was working with iambic tetrameter “Star Trek: Enterprise”, iambic tetrameter/trimeter “Chuck”, and trochaic tetrameter “Bones” if you were curious. Though, if you are good with scansion you might notice that none of these are consistent. Chalk it up to either bad form or creative license, depending on whether you mean me criticism or praise.

One Ill Turn 6

Star Trek: Mayweather

Stardate: 2381.79
USS Mayweather in Deep Space

“Captain, we are approaching long range sensor range of Deep Space 15,” Ensign Ford reported from his station at Ops.

“Give me a full scan.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ford turned to his station and began the scan. Captain O’Sullivan sighed internally. This was it. He’d had a week to brood about his brother’s death and it had brought him no closer to solace. Now there was no more holo-suite to build, no more endless warping through space to give him an excuse to ignore his duties. Now there was a mission at hand. He addressed Lieutenant M’Tel at the helm.

“Drop us out of warp. Slow to impulse.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Ensign?”

“Captain, I show three vessels orbiting Deep Space 15. One reads as the USS Hood. The other two are USS McCoy and USS Pasteur. The station itself appears to be heavily damaged. I am showing multiple hull breaches.”

“Very well. Hail the station, Ensign.”

“Channel open, sir.”

“Deep Space 15, this is Captain O’Sullivan of the USS Mayweather.”

“Mayweather, this is Commander Franklin. Good to see you.”

“Sorry we are late to the party, Commander.”

“Nonsense, Captain. You are right on time.”

“Anything we can do for you, Commander?”

“Starfleet Command says you are to take tactical command of the situation. Hood is coordinating repairs, while McCoy is taking care of our personnel.”

“Very well. We’ll stand guard. Let us know if you need anything further.”

“Will do, Captain. Thank you. 15 out.”

“M’Tel, put us in orbit. Commander Sulkhan, put us at Yellow Alert.”

“Aye, Sir.”

O’Sullivan turned to his first officer. “Commander, coordinate with Hood and McCoy. If we can lend assistance, see that we do so. I don’t intend our crew to twiddle their thumbs even if we have to.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’ll be in my ready room. You have the bridge, Commander.”

*****

It was less than a few hours later that all hell broke loose. O’Sullivan was reading status reports from Deep Space 15, when his tactical officer’s voice sounded through the comm.

“RED ALERT. Captain to the bridge!”

He lurched from his seat and ran the few feet to the bridge.

“Report!”

Lt. Commander Sulkhan called out. “Sir, three Gorn warships have dropped out of warp. They are closing on the station. They have armed weapons.”

“Onscreen!” O’Sullivan yelled. “Hail them!”

“No response, Captain.” Commander Zal.

“Sir, they’ve opened fire!” Suddenly the bridge rocked, as did the rest of the ship.

O’Sullivan: “Return fire. Keep us between them and the station.”

Red phaser fire lanced out from several emitters on the hull and struck targets on the Gorn ships. Small explosions leaped into space. Static from shields flared briefly.

Sulkhan: “Hood has joined the fight. They’ve taken heavy damage to their port nacelle.”

Zal: “The flanking warship is targeting DS15.”

O’Sullivan: “Come about. Ready quantum torpedoes. Target their warp core.”

Sulkhan: “Ready, sir!”

O’Sullivan: “Fire!!”

A spread of green points of light leaped from underneath the starship. The torpedoes impacted the rear of the Gorn ship.

Sulkhan: “Direct hit! They are withdrawing.”

To hell with that, thought O’Sullivan. “Target them again. Fire when ready.”

Sulkhan: “Aye, sir.”

Zal: “Captain? They’re out of the fight…”

O’Sullivan ignored her. “You heard the order, Lt. Commander.”

Sulkhan: “Aye, Sir. Firing.”

Another lethal payload leapt from the Mayweather. Seconds later the floundering Gorn ship exploded spectacularly.

Zal: “Sir, the other two ships are breaking off. They’ve gone to warp.”

O’Sullivan: “Stand down Red Alert. Report.”

Ford: “Sir, the Pasteur is heavily damaged. They have emergency power only. McCoy is crippled. Hood reports functional, but they’ve lost their engines. We’ve sustained moderate damage, but we’ll live. Repair crews are responding. Medical reports 10 wounded. Reports are still coming in from the fleet.”

“I got it, Ensign.”

Popping up a display on his chair arm, O’Sullivan read through the reports. In the back of his mind, something was screaming. His brother was a week dead, and now this attack. Deep Space 15 hadnt been hit, but half the Pasteur’s crew was dead or wounded and the USS McCoy’s captain was in a coma. Only Hood reported minor casualties. It apparently helped being a ship of line and not a medical frigate when attacked, it seemed. What did the Gorn want? Why attack?

Commander Zal spoke up.

“Why the attack, sir?”

“I don’t know. Contact Starfleet Command. Inform them of the situation. Send out a distress call. We can’t deal with this ourselves.”

“Aye, sir.”

A tense hour passed. No one was sure the Gorn wouldn’t return. It was somewhat a miracle that they didn’t. The attack was as surprising as their lack of reprisal. The whole situation was mystifying. In the meantime, Mayweather licked it’s wounds. Now instead of one station being damaged, one station and three starships were down.

Ford: “Sir, three Vulcan ships and two Andorian battle cruisers have dropped out of warp. They are asking what they can do to help.”

“Have the Vulcans coordinate with Doctor Paloma to treat the wounded. Tell the Andorians to form a defensive perimeter.”

Zal: “Starfleet Command is coming through.”

O’Sullivan: “Onscreen.”

The image shifted from that of smoking starships to the grim face of Admiral Janeway.

“Rough day, Captain?”

“You could say that, Admiral.”

“We are dispatching what help we can. In the meantime, I want you to move into Gorn space. Contact the Gorn Hegemony and ascertain why we were attacked.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, we have enough to deal with here without going looking to pick a fight.”

“A fight is precisely what you shouldn’t pick. Starfleet considers this a prelude to war. Make sure that it doesn’t become a declaration of one. After fighting the Dominion, we are hardly in a position to fight the Gorn.”

“Admiral…”

“You have your orders, Captain.”

Damn. I’d rather launch an all out assault than play diplomat. The bastards attacked us while we were wounded! O’Sullivan thought. But all he said was “Yes, Admiral.”

With a nod, Janeway ended her transmission.

“Commander, recall Doctor Paloma and our damage control teams from DS15. Have the Hood take over here. We have some Gorn to find.”

“Aye, sir.”

A few minutes later Ford reported in. “All sections report ready. Everyone is back aboard.”

“Lieutenant M’Tel, set a course for Gorn space. Warp 7.”

“Aye, sir.”

The USS Mayweather warped out of one situation and into another.

THE USS MAYWEATHER WILL RETURN IN “The Gorn” COMING SOON!

One Ill Turn 5

Star Trek: Mayweather

Stardate: 2381.77
USS Mayweather in Deep Space

The rumble of the ship’s engines soothed Commander Tucker’s mind and lulled him into a gentle sleep.

All week, while the ship was at high warp, he had maintained the ship’s engines, making sure that everything was in order. Given that USS Mayweather was one of the more advanced starships in the Federation fleet, that didn’t take much doing. Consequently, given the lack of recreational facilities aboard, the captain had given Tucker a secondary mission a few days earlier.

“Ah, come in Commander. I have something I want to discuss with you.”

Tucker eased into the captain’s ready room and took a seat.

“What can I do for you, Cap’n?” he asked in that soft southern drawl of his.

“Mayweather is a decent ship, but she’s a bit lacking, Commander.”

“How’s that, Cap’n? From what I’ve seen in engineering she’s the finest you could ask for in a ship of this size.”

“That she is, but unlike a larger vessel, she doesn’t have as much recreational space aboard.”

“Ya know, I had noticed. All we’ve got is a small rec room down on Deck 7. What do you want me to do, convert a cargo bay into a gymnasium?”

“Not quite. Look here.”

Captain O’Sullivan pulled out a PADD showing deck by deck layout of the ship. He pointed to a section of the schematics.

“Here, on Deck 3, is an auxiliary lab. Mayweather was originally designed as a science vessel, but our mandate is a little different. Right now we aren’t using it for anything, correct?”

“Right. I think Doc has borrowed some of it for medical storage.”

“Ah. No big deal. Now, here’s my idea: what would it take to convert that lab into a holo-suite?”

“Hmm. Not a bad idea, Cap’n. Off the top of my head, we’d have to replicate some more holo emitters and reconfigure the deck plating, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Mostly it just takes removing what’s in the lab. We’d also have to reconfigure this bulkhead here and here, to make the lab more a rectangle than a triangle.” His fingers indicated sections of the schematic.

“How long do you think it would take?”

“Should have it finished a day or two from Deep Space 15, sir. I’ll get a few teams on it right away.”

“Very good, Commander.”

And that was that. “Operation: Holo-Suite” was underway. For the engineer, it was a unique project. He had never reconfigured part of a starship before, and it was exciting. Most large ships had several full holo-decks, large cargo bay sized rooms devoted to creating holographic scenarios. Given Mayweather’s small size and original design specifications, scientific labs were deemed more important. She had another lab on the other side of Deck 3, opposite Sickbay, that was another general purpose science lab which should be plenty for whatever scientific missions the Powers That Be at Starfleet dreamed up for Mayweather and her crew. But this way, with a smaller, but still fully functional holo-suite, they would at last have a space to let off some steam from time to time, other than the general rec room at the bottom of the ship, which only held exercise equipment.

Given that he shared a room with Ensign Ford, the ensign knew about the changes before anyone. He and Tucker stayed up late that first night designing on PADDs and passing ideas back and forth. It was the start of a new relationship. At first they had butted heads over having to share quarters, and while Tucker still meant to discuss it with the Quartermaster, his initial disdain for a roommate faded in his excitement in building a holo-suite. Here was someone with whom to share his enthusiasm. Ford also had a bit of the writer bug in him, so he volunteered to create a few programs to install in the holo-suite database.

Therefore, while Tucker and his engineering crews realigned bulkheads, installed holographic emitters, swapped hull plating, and rerouted power conduits, Ford and a few of the operations staff configured part of the main computer to store holo-programs and the Ensign got about programming.

Tucker slept on, and in the morning did his rounds of engineering. Everything was in order, so he met, as was becoming usual, Ensign Ford in the Officer’s Mess on Deck 2. They sat at a table with a window into space and discussed holo-programs.

“What do you think about a scenario set in the ancient American West? I was thinking about setting up an old-style saloon, with poker tables. I know a few of the officers play cards, and several of the enlisted crew do as well. We could have regularly scheduled games.”

“Sounds terrific to me. I always did kinda want to be a cowboy. Yee-haw!” Tucker’s animated shout drew a few glances from the other officers.

“I know! How about a re-creation of the Enterprise bridge, you know, the original 1701. We could play Cap’n Kirk and explore the galaxy with his original bridge crew?”

Ensign Ford didn’t seem as convinced. “Or maybe the NX-01 and we could play as Captain Archer. I could even program a holographic beagle.” But thinking about that gave him an idea.

“Puppies!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everybody loves puppies. I should program a puppy nursery. I haven’t had a dog since I was a kid. That would be a great stress reliever for the crew.”

This time it was Commander Tucker’s turn to shake his head.

“Knock yerself out, Ensign. But I do like the idea of a Wild West saloon. Don’t ferget that one.”

“I won’t, sir.”

Tucker finished his coffee.

“Well, I should be getting back to it. Aren’t you due on the bridge?”

“Right, sir. See you at 1400. My shift ends on the bridge and I want to give a hand in the holo-suite.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

And with one thing leading to another, Tucker never did get to talk to the Quartermaster about getting his own room. Besides, now whenever he needed time to himself, all he had to do was schedule time in the almost finished holo-suite.

As promised, it was completed a day before the ship was to rendezvous with Deep Space 15. The senior officers gathered at the doors to the new Holo-Suite 1.

Captain O’Sullivan raised a glass of champagne.

“To Commander Tucker, and his hard working crew of engineers, and to Ensign Ford’s superb programming skills. I now declare Holo-Suite 1 open for business.”

The senior officers drained their glasses and stepped out of the USS Mayweather and into the ancient western Holliday Saloon.

The holographic bartender shouted out as they entered,

“What’ll it be, strangers?”

One Ill Turn 4

Star Trek: Mayweather

Stardate: 2381.73
USS Mayweather in Deep Space

“But, sir…” Lt. Commander Tucker was saying. “Quartermaster said that you gave the order and apparently only you can rescind the order.”

O’Sullivan rubbed his temples. Given the week long trip to Deep Space 15, he decided to get to know his bridge crew a little better, but at the moment that involved settling a rooming dispute between Commander Tucker and Ensign Ford that he could not care any less about.

“Look, Commander, as I said, I gave no such order, and furthermore, the Quartermaster takes care of room assignments for a reason: so I don’t have to. Work it out with him.”

Tucker sighed. “Aye, Cap’n.”

“Now, if there isn’t anything else, send Commander Sulkhan in.”

“Aye, sir.”

Commander Tucker got up and left the captain’s ready room. For a few minutes, the captain had a bit of peace. He had already met with Ensign Ford, the happy go-get-’em ops officer. That man’s positivity could really irritate someone, that someone being Captain O’Sullivan. Not that O’Sullivan had anything against happy people, he just didn’t tend to be all that positive himself, and preferred someone who was a bit more reserved.

The door whooshed open admitting his tactical officer, Sulkhan. Someone like Sulkhan. Thus far the captain had yet to hear him say an extraneous word. Captain O’Sullivan gestured towards the chair sitting opposite his desk.

“Please, have a seat, Commander.”

The Gargoy officer sat down, carefully folding his wings behind his back. His wings had a slighty tendency to extend slightly when he was walking. Sulkhan came from a planet called Gargoria, one of the smaller planets in the United Federation of Planets. To O’Sullivan’s knowledge, he was one of only a few Gargoys serving in Starfleet.

“From what I understand, there are not many of your species in Starfleet, Commander.”

“No, sir.”

“Get lonely much?”

“No, sir.”

There followed a few seconds of silence.

“Good. Well, Commander, as we haven’t formally met, I am Sean O’Sullivan. I am pleased to have you aboard. From what Admiral Janeway tells me, you are a fine officer.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A few more seconds of silence followed. O’Sullivan was enjoying a pleasant conversation, for once today.

“As far as our mission goes,” the Captain continued, “I don’t know that there will be much for you to do. We will be one of four ships on station, though only one other, the USS Hood, has any armaments. The other two are strictly resupply craft. I do not anticipate any trouble, but we will be on the borders of the Gorn Alliance and the Tholian Assembly. Neither is too happy with Deep Space 15 being so near their territory, so they may try to take advantage of the situation somehow. I consider this to be unlikely, but possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you participated in any combat, Commander?”

Sulkhan smiled, the first overt facial expression that Captain O’Sullivan had seen him make.

“Yes, sir.” And, for the first time, he elaborated: “I was a Gargoy commando during the unification of my home world, some 50 years ago. I commanded an orbital attack wing.”

“Well, feel free to think of the Mayweather as your personal attack craft if it comes to combat. We certainly aren’t much bigger than one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’ll be all, Commander. You may return to your post.”

Sulkhan merely nodded before standing and exiting the room.

O’Sullivan breathed deeply. Three down, two to go. For his next meeting, the ship’s ranking medical officer, he decided to take a stroll down to Sickbay. He felt like stretching his legs a little after sitting on the bridge and sitting in his ready room. Exiting his ready room, he walked the corridor around the front curve of the bridge and down past the conference room and his quarters. Once in the turbolift he murmured “Deck 3” and waited during the short ride down. Though his ship wasn’t a monstrosity like a Galaxy or Sovereign class ship, and not afforded of all the comforts of such, at least it didn’t take forever to ride 12 decks down to reach somebody.

It was another short walk from the turbolift to Sickbay, and once there he was greeted with a small bustle of activity. His chief medical officer, Doctor Paloma, was advising a junior medical officer in the treatment of a crewman.

O’Sullivan intended to stand by and watch, but Paloma greeted him immediately.

“Captain. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing much, Doctor. I am here for our meet and greet appointment.”

The doctor swept several locks her dark hair back behind one ear.

“I would have come to you.”

“Quite alright. I felt like a little walk anyway. What happened here?”

“Just a small accident in engineering. Minor plasma burns.”

“My own fault, Captain.” The crewman spoke up.

O’Sullivan acknowledged him with a curt nod and a tight smile.

“If you have a moment, Doctor…?”

“Certainly.”

They removed to a small office off the end of Sickbay. Captain O’Sullivan remained standing as Dr. Paloma took her seat behind a tiny desk.

“Finding everything you need, Doctor?”

“Certainly. The Mayweather’s medical facilities are as well equipped as any in Starfleet. We even have an EMH (emergency medical hologram) program.”

After the debacle with the USS Voyager‘s EMH program, and his subsequent battle for full rights and privileges as a member of the Federation and an officer in Starfleet, Starfleet was fazing out the EMH deployment aboard starships. The less holographic people there were, the fewer of them could develop sentience. Not that Starfleet had anything against non-biological people, but they certainly hadn’t intended to create a new race with the creation of an emergency holographic physician.

“Really? Well, we will have to keep his programming under close scrutiny.”

“No worries, Captain. I don’t intend to ever activate him.”

O’Sullivan shrugged.

“Your choice, of course Doctor. I won’t interfere in your sickbay. You are responsible for any creatures you create, Dr. Frankenstein.” He smirked and Paloma laughed respectfully at the joke.

“Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be on the bridge.”

“Thank you, Captain. Thanks for stopping by.”

O’Sullivan nodded and left the officer, nodding to the medical staff as he left Sickbay. The crewman was already gone, his burns having been treated quickly and efficiently. Utilizing the turbolift once more, O’Sullivan returned to the bridge.

Ensign Ford yelled out: “Captain on the bridge!” and before O’Sullivan could sit down, Lieutenant M’tel turned at the helm. “Turn for my meet and greet, Captain?” She smiled a feline smile, full of sharp teeth.

“No, Lieutenant. I already know you. Be about your duties.”

“Aye, sir.”

O’Sullivan walked over to ops. There Ensign Ford looked up at, eager as a puppy.

“Yes, Captain? Anything I can do for?”

“Yes, actually. Never do that again.”

Ford looked confused.

“What, sir?”

“Announce my presence. It’s unnecessary.”

“But it is protocol, sir.”

“To hell with that particular protocol. That’s an order, Ensign. I ever hear that again, I’ll have you cleaning warp manifolds with a toothbrush for a week. Understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Good.”

O’Sullivan returned to his seat in the middle of the bridge. Commander Zal looked up from the console on the side of her chair and arched an eyebrow at the captain.

“What was that all about?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. I just never liked being announced.”

“Careful, Captain. Some of the crew are beginning to think you are a thundercloud in boots. You are getting a reputation as a grouch.”

“Good.” O’Sullivan smiled a wicked little smile. “Wouldn’t want word to get out that I am a nice guy. Might have a mutiny on my hands.”

“Humph.”

“You disapprove?”

Zal laughed. “Far be it from me to criticize my captain’s command techniques.”

Now it was O’Sullivan’s turn to “Humph”.

He turned to Ensign Ford and gave him a noncommittal smile. “What’s our current situation, Ensign?”

“On course for Deep Space 15, sir. Warp factor 7. Current speed will have us there in just over a week. All systems nominal, sir.”

“Very good. Helm, increase to Warp 9, that should shave off a few days. I’m getting bored.”

M’Tel smiled. “Aye, sir.”

There was a slight rumble as the engines turned it up a notch.

O’Sullivan leaned back in his seat.

“And they said captaining a starship was one adventure after another. See the galaxy, they said. Meet new civilizations and new worlds, they said. Said nothing about the endless journey there, they didn’t say.”

“Careful, Captain. You’re grousing again.”

O’Sullivan retaliated on his first officer by standing up and declaring, “You have the bridge, Commander. I’ll be in my quarters if you need me,” and effectively trapping Zal on the bridge until he specifically relieved her of temporary command. She fumed silently after a curt, “Aye, sir.” Gods, but he loved sparring with that woman.

O’Sullivan left the bridge and entered his quarters. Alone with his thoughts, he almost broke down crying. He had often bantered with his brother like that, years ago. It had been years since he had seen his brother alive, and then his brother died in space. That same space sped quietly by the windows in his quarters, long lines of stars one after the other. Uncaring, unknowing, empty space. Empty like O’Sullivan’s soul.

The USS Mayweather warped on, deep into that empty space.