VIRTUAL WORLDS

VIRTUAL PEOPLE

KAY PORTER WINFIELD

BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York

Virtual Worlds Virtual People

by Kay Porter Winfield
Copyright 2016
Published by BlazeVOX [books]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without
the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza
Cover Art: Hartley Park, Mt. Vernon, NY 1920 by Noah Saterstrom
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-189-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957989
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kami Amaterasu
The white wolf walks along the narrow dirt road,
the yellow of the dirt ahead reflects
the suns harsh rays but what follows behind
is the miracle. Green grass and pink flowers
sprout from the dirt her feet touch. Withering
trees come to life as the air that surrounds
her blows through the brown leaves.
Crops, dead where they were sown, begin
to reach towards the sun and ripen.
The people that she passes shrink
back in fear from the effects
the wolf has on her surroundings.
They whisper to each other
and avert their eyes as she passes.
She mourns the crops that will be left
to die once again, the trees that will be cut
down, the grass and flowers trampled.
No one trusts what they dont understand,
but she gives the people this gift anyway.
She hears the cries and prayers
of those who are starving and knows
it is the role of a goddess to provide.
One day, a man will brave
his fears of the unexplained
and bite into the shiny, red apple
from the tree beside that very same road.
It will be the best fruit he has ever tasted.

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Rapture Can Become Your City As Well

Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?
No! says the man in Washington, It belongs to the poor.
No! says the man in the Vatican, It belongs to God.
No! says the man in Moscow, It belongs to everyone.
I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different.
I chose the impossible. I choseRapture.
Andrew Ryan, Bioshock

The reflection of the red neon sign

off the surrounding water resembles couples
dancing the way they were supposed to dance
on a night like tonight.
Happy New Year 1959 it blinks,
winking to the broken champagne glasses
and overturned chairs that litter
the glossy wooden floor.
The white icing of the uneaten cake glows
like snow in the low light.
The destruction of the room
hasnt touched its flawless tiers, unmarred
by tiny fingers too eager for dessert.
Propaganda posters denounce the parasites
and advertise ADAM as Evolution in a Bottle
and EVE as the best for our discerning customers
wave from the art deco style hall walls
where they hang, half torn by careless hands
in haste as the party fled for their lives.
Among the upset tables, fallen
confetti and torn, fluttering streamers,
Angels lay where they have fallen
the masks they wore for the masquerade

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covering their wide eyes and silent screams

as they wait for the Sisters to come.
It wasnt always like this,
Andrew Ryan created the city
as a sanctuary where the artist
would not fear the censor, where the scientist
would not be bound by petty morality, where the great
would not be constrained by the small.
He promised that by the sweat of your brow
Rapture could become your city as well.
The large, golden bust of Ryan
at the entrance of the great,
underwater city proudly displays
a red banner inscribed with the slogan,
that was once sold to potential inhabitants:
No Gods or Kings. Only Man
became the admission of guilt.

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In Rapture
Hop, Hop Mr. Bubbles.
The Little Sister looks back at her protector, yellow eyes
flash, needle at the ready as they search the passages of Rapture
for the donation of the one thing everyone needs: ADAM.
Dont be a slow poke, Mr. B.
The Big Daddys footsteps echo in the corridors,
slow and loud as metal on metal squeals with every foot fall.
He follows the Little Sister, always watching for signs of danger.
Come on, Mr. B.! The Angels are waiting for our kisses.
The scientist Dr. Tennenbaum made the pair this way, genetically altering
the Little Sisters so they were attracted, like kittens to their mother,
to the pheromones that the Big Daddies produced.
Angels dont wait for slow pokes, Mr. B.
as part of the Protector Program, Dr. Suchong mentally conditioned
every Big Daddy to protect the Little Sisters to the death
from splicers who wished them harm.
Save me, Sir Bubbles!
Every splicer reacts differently to the pair: the lucky ones hide,
quietly shaking behind cover, as they wait for the danger
to slowly pass, or give in to the urge and flee.
Unzip him, Mr. B! Unzip him!
The braver, or more desperate, splicer attacks,
hoping to get his hands on the ADAM,
but instead he only get the Big Daddy, eyes glowing red in rage.
Tear em into little bits!
The Little Sister cheers her Big Daddy on as he uses

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a drill, a rivet gun, or his hands to dispose of the threat

on the life of his Little Sister.
Is it safe to go walking now?
The Little Sister and the Big Daddy, trained
by scientists from the beginning to be nothing more than tools,
without feelings for anyone else but the other.
Wake up, Mr. Bubbles! Wake up!
They say the saddest sound in all of Rapture
is the wail of the Little Sister as she mourns the loss
of her Big Daddy.

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In the Borderlands
Dry winds dance across the desert dunes.
The Queen Spiderant, blue carapace glistening
in the relentless sun, defends her young,
waiting from within the nest,
tunneled in the sand,
from two hunters.
Slashing with large, scything talons,
she steps forward, closer to the male hunter,
but further from the nest.
The female hunter seizes this opportunity,
sneaks around the distracted mother,
and disappears into the nest.
A shriek soon rises from the dark,
like the scrape of tines on a glass plate.
The man looks to his partner
as she runs from the nest,
followed by a horde
of young spiderants.
The Queens talon finds the flesh
of the unsuspecting male, as her young
pin down their dinner.

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The Shadows
Nightmares exist outside of logic, and theres little fun
to be had of explanations; theyre antithetical
to the poetry of fearStephen King

The shadows rise,

hundreds of them,
waiting for the light
to retreat so they
can serve their purpose.
It would be easy to succumb,
to give in to the need to rest
in the cool blankets of night,
but then there is that fear
the suffocating darkness,
and the horrors
that it hides.
So you fight.
The flashlights beam burns
away the blackness
and, for a time, you think
you have won
but how could you?
There is one of you
and infinite darkness.
The shadows wait
letting you believe
in your little victory
as the sun rises
and they flee.
The brightness
of the kitchen
soothes
as you pour

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coffee into a mug.

As you sit on the stool,
inhaling the steam,
the movement
in the darkness of the hallway
catches your eye.

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The Great Deku Tree: Guardian of the Forest

Rooted among the hard-shelled beetles
and the soft-bodied earthworms
that slither, churning
dirt blindly, the Great Deku Tree
cannot flee the darkness that seeps
into the bark like poison, breaking
the heartwood down, turning
the sapwood rotten.
The hero arrives too late.
The forest is dark and night whispers
of tribulation and terrible futures.

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Survival
The soft,
damp soil clings
to the witchs sticky
limbs as she satiates the craving
for brains.

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