Mouth Of God

Elephant Offense: Schwarzweiß und Gefärbt

Animate Steel

It was cool. He was lying, curled up, scroll-like, on an unyielding concrete floor.

He attempted to recall how he had come here. He could remember the first flood of exhilarating, inchoate consciousness, which had directly preceded a molten and incomprehensible heat--his flesh burnt and burning. Then he had experienced a sudden cold, which caused him to shrink and shudder. But still he did not understand these things--hot and cold--nor could he judge them to be either good or ill. And so he lay, pondering these few brief experiences which comprised his existence. Eventually, the strain of his wonderings began to tire him, and he slept.

When he finally awoke, an angel stood before him. Though he had no ears to hear (nor eyes to see, for that matter), the angel caused him to understand these words: "Sorry about that. Every now and then, a soul will accidentally get all tangled up in some inanimate object on its way to a womb. You've spent the last week as a bit of new-made chain-link fence. Don't worry though, we'll get you out."

With those last words the angel smiled (though he did not cause the chain-link fence to see it), and walked out of 'hearing'-distance from the soul-infused fencing, and removed from his breast pocket a cell-phone, dialed a number and began speaking: "We've got another one.... Yep.... Hell, then?... With the rest of the mistakes?... Poor bastard.... Yeah, I know, mistakes'll happen.... Yeah, Tuesday at Riggoletto's.... See you there."

___________
This post is part of a continuing series of content coördinated in theme or motif with a post from John D. Moore of whatnot 8.0. This week's motif: 'Chain-Link Fences'.

Notes 11:29 A.M.

God gave to man a great vantage--granting him divine knowledge--but he thought it better for man to strive after his own immortality.

Pointless Manfestation of Otherworldly Power

The platform had appeared somewhat unexpectedly in Rupert J. Samander's study. It was not the first time, of course, and Rupert tried studiously to ignore it.

Now, when it had first appeared Rupert thought it, perhaps, some sign of God, or a portal into another dimension. Neither, after he had carried out various experiments, seemed now to be the case. Unlike other supernatural stories with which Rupert was familiar, this horizontally positioned, glowing, opalescent platform seemed a pointless manifestation of otherworldly power.

Now, Rupert would have been content--or so he thought--with covering it with a piece of drapery, or setting a lamp upon it. At least then it would be of some use. But, alas, the platform appeared and disappeared rather capriciously, and it became a tedious thing to constantly be setting things upon it, only to have them fall to the ground when the platform ceased to exist on the mortal plane. And so, Rupert tried to ignore it. And failed.

"Let some other person deal with it," thought Rupert, finally, and left his study, and his house, and was never heard from again.

28 Gorilla Scalps

"I see, sir, that you are possessor of 28 gorilla scalps."

"I am."

"Care to part with any?"

"No...I need them all."

"All 28?"

"Yes."

The man who had expressed interest in the other man's gorilla scalps paused for a moment, and seemed to think about the problem that confronted him--How could he obtain some of those gorillas' scalps? Reason, perhaps?

"Look here," said the Scalp-Seeker, "What project could possibly demand a full 28 gorilla scalps?"

"A private matter," snorted the Scalps' possessor, disdainfully.

"Hmm...," thought the man, Nathan, who wanted so badly some of those scalps. "Perhaps this jackanapes won't respond to reason--some people really did prefer the goad to the carrot."

"Alright," said Nathan, "I didn't intend on this becoming a brawl--"

"--Good."

"I wasn't finished!" resumed Nathan, "Now I didn't want this to get ugly, and--"

"--That's fine. I wouldn't care for a match of brawn here and now anyway. Gorilla Scalps don't keep forever, you know."

"I still wasn't finished!"

"Oh. Well, go on."

"Moment is spoiled now, I think," he paused, then added, "I think I know a chap I can get a couple scalps off anyway."

"Good. Trouble him."

"I will."

Twilight

It was recently my good fortune to see the film Twilight, based upon the book of the same title by Stephenie Meyer. I would like to describe a scene from the film in the (perhaps) vain hope that it will convince those who haven't yet, or weren't intending to see the film, to see the film.

Imagine if you will, really pale people walking in slow motion--two girls, three guys. These pale beings are fairly attractive, and pale. Their paleness will not cease. Then they sit down. Still they maintain their aura of paleness. Obviously, these pale kids are pretty cool--no skin cancer for them, EVER!

Wow. It's almost like I'm there again. DON'T MISS THIS MOVIE!!!

Addendum: John Moore wasn't convinced to see Twilight based on the description of the above scene, but he won't be able to resist seeing the film after I describe the following scene:

Imagine if you will, a guy standing in a beam of sunlight. He is turned so that only his shirt-clad back is visible. From this view, one can see that he his unbuttoning his shirt. When this is done, he then turns around, revealing his torso to the sunlight through his open, unbuttoned shirt. The sunlight, when it touches him, causes him to sparkle, as if he were covered in sparkly glitter. You find yourself saying, "OMG, you're skin is sparkly-beautiful." Then Sparkle-Torso says in reply, "This is the skin of a murderer!"

"Eh"

The other day, I asked a co-worker of mine how it was going for him. He replied with a disparaging, I-could-take-it-or-leave-it "eh."

I thought this pretty well summed up the entire history of mankind.

The Final Rune

"Let the world die!"laughed the chief priest madly, and exultantly called out the final rune.

Nothing happened.

The priest's acolytes held their breath in tightly as their master called out the rune of annihilation, believing wholly in his mastery over otherworldly powers which would, at his command, consume the world.

A minute passed. The candles which lighted the temple, in which the priests--bodies tensed--were expectantly standing, flickered, causing the shadows in the temple to grow and shrink wildly; but no other movement was discernible. Still more minutes passed, till it was almost become a farce, and, indeed, one of the younger acolytes, less stalwart in his discipline, found it necessary to stifle an incipient fit of laughter at the inherent absurdity of the situation.

An elderly priest turned to admonish the youthful priest for his irreverence, but before the words could escape his lips, a soft groan escaped the lips of the chief priest, and all attention was drawn back firmly to him.

The chief priest's face seemed oddly contorted, and everywhere his veins seemed to bulge and crawl under his skin, as if sarcophagic worms had invaded his flesh and, wriggling, were tunneling just beneath surface. The acolytes of the temple turned nervously to one another, each marking the fear which each of his brothers' countenance bore.

A hellish scream or cacophony of screams, at first so high-pitched as to be inaudible to the occupants of the temple, began to resound, though no source could be discerned, seeming to come from all places and none. This unearthly scream's pitch changed until its sound pierced deep into the minds of all the priests of the temple, causing them, in turns, to reel or fall to the ground or to vomit. Incapacitated by the impossible din, the priests could not escape the temple, and some of the priests, driven to madness by the sound, smashed their heads against the marble floor or pillars of the temple, shattering their skulls, bringing them relief. Still the high priest stood, seemingly unaffected by the terrifying noise.

At last, the this unholy noise ceased, and some of the priests of the temple began to recover themselves and stand, but the temple then began to to lightly quake and a great crack split the temple down the middle of the nave, and in the next moment, the earth shifted mightily, and the temple suddenly existed on two planes--one half higher than the other. On the higher of the two planes, the high priest still stood, his face contorted into an impossibly wide rictus grin, which widened, till the flesh of his cheeks split and from this widened opening seemed to crawl, or was vomited forth a black and viscous fluid, which seemed to expand as it touched the ground.

At first the black fluid merely pooled thickly around the chief priest's feet, but it soon began to creep outward, forming tendrils which, with seeming intelligence, sought out the remaining priests of the temple. When it touched them they became as the chief priest before, their veins bulging--black--as if with some malignant virulence...

Mockery

The overripe peaches seemed to explode, releasing their cloying perfume as they made contact with Ronnie's cringing and huddled frame.

"Pee-pants! Ronnie Ronnie pee-pants! Peed his pants! Baby Ronnie pee-pants!" cried a crowd of Ronnie's peers, launching more rotting peaches at him and more--though not much cleverer--invectives.

Ronnie trembled, and tried to make himself a smaller target, wincing whenever the hard and sharp peach pits bit into the skin wherever his clothing failed to cover it, and sometimes where it did.

He could have explained to them why he had peed his pants--a fact he didn't deny--but what would be the point? They wouldn't understand.

At last, the supply of easily obtainable peaches began to lessen, until it they became too scarce for Ronnie's classmates to keep up a consistent barrage, and the pelting ceased soon after, but not before Bruce, the instigator of this assault against Ronnie, had spoken: "That's what you get when you pee your pants, baby. Stop being such a pee-pants, and maybe this won't happen again."

This being said, and after few more peaches were casually thrown at the pathetic object of their mockery, the crowd dispersed, leaving Ronnie a sticky mess.

Ronnie waited until he was sure the other boys had gone and picked himself from the ground and tried to clean himself up as best he could. He then picked up his books, and began to walk slowly home.

__________________
Friday nights, for the foreseeable future, Chide, Chode, Chidden will feature a post coördinated in theme with a post from John D. Moore of whatnot 8.0. The chosen theme will be expressed in whatever manner we each see fit, be it poem, short story, hymn, interpretive dance and so on and so forth. The first theme we have chosen is, for your enjoyment, 'peaches'.

Assassin

The blade slipped easily between the boy's ribs, exploding and sundering his heart. The boy's face bore a look of confusion that asked, 'Why?'

"A matter of state," thought the assassin, in reply to the unspoken query still writ on the boy's face, while he unhurriedly cleaned his blade on the child's garment. "It was your ill-luck to be born into such a violent and ruthless age. I too am its product. Let us pray for better times!"

Having finished cleaning his blade, the assassin sheathed it, and mentally added, "Truly, I am sorry. Till we meet again!" He made the sign of blessing over the small corpse and passed into the darkness of the night.

Redeemed

A lone demon wandered the ruined cities of man. Their time-wracked shapes reminded him of the sun-rotted corpses of antediluvian leviathans, who would, in their sorrows, cast themselves upon the barren shores of continents now long submerged by tirelessly effacing seas.

"How alone am I, sole inhabitant of this world, fated to ever live!" quoth the demon, who, when mankind was young upon the earth, bore the name Sariel. But now the earth was old, and no living thing passed across its barren face.

Sariel, stopping among the fallen stones of some unremembered square, looked into the sky. The sun was small in the sky, white and palely shining, shrunk from its vernal brilliance. As he looked heavenward, a memory came to him unbidden:

He was young and yellow light warmed and wakened him. He was abed, and content, and the smell of citrus from the lemon-tree in the court outside his window wafted sweetly throught an arched and open window. Sweeter still the scent of her who lay next to him, naked though swathed loosley in clean sheets of white linen. Her shoulder, pale ivory, lay uncovered, and while she slept lightly he lay upon this living alabaster soft kisses, which caused her to wake...

The memory faded, only to be replaced by another:

The room was dark and shuttered. Wan candles' light flickered, and the scent of disease lay heavy upon the air, poorly masked by potions and unguents--ineffective all! She whom he loved fevered. Her once pale skin was yellowed, and her breaths came shallow and labored. Her black eyes asked for mercy from her wretchedness...

Sariel fell to his knees in the thick dust of the empty square, and unbidden came tears for sorrows he thought long overcome. He wept, and as he wept, he remembered beyond the years he had spent upon the earth. He remembered before the fall, his great wings, which had carried him across the galaxy-scattered expanse at his whim. He felt again the loss of riding the star-blown winds; the steady rhythm of his wings pulsing like the beat of a heart.

He remembered standing enchained before God's throne--accused. Two great angels held him, and a third drew a fiery sword and slashed at the flesh of his mighty pinions, then a fourth took up a great club and shattered his wings' bones. Then he was cast from heaven's height, and he fell for three days and nights through unresisting air, till the earth stopped him. He had never since flown, these myriad myriad aeons.

"Merciful Ruler of Heaven, take pity on one who once served Thee, restore to me at least my wings, that I may fly from this place, to some newer world, less lonely than this!" Having spoken this prayer, Sariel collapsed.

When the sun had fallen, Sariel awoke. He lifted himself from the ground, to continue his lonely peregrinations across the barren world. Something, however, felt changed in him. "My wings!" he exclaimed, "They are restored!" He leapt into the air, and with powerful strokes climbed into the atmosphere, and with a few more strokes of his wings left the earth behind.

The 'One'

A bald-pated man in flowing azure robes, emblazoned--in contrasting silver thread--with mantic symbols, stood imperiously before a broad-shouldered, uncomely youth, unshod, wearing plain homespun--brown and dirty--and holding a chicken.

The blue-robed man's face wore an expression of extreme exasperation, as he began speaking to the chicken-bearing rustic: "No, for the last time, I don't wish to purchase the chicken! I came here, traveling from distant lands, across barren wastes, and precipitous mountains, to inform you, that you're the 'one'. You know, the one the legends of old foretold of? He, who would bring peace to our divided land? Defeat the incumbent and evil power who now rules? All signs point to you, it is written both the stars and various animals' entrails, and by prophets and soothsayers and mystics, both ancient and modern!"

"Well, like I said, if you'd like to buy a chicken, that's what I sell. I sell chicken parts too, if you're interested. I don't really have time to come off with you and beat down evil, and all that," said the youth, who then added, "Sorry that you came all this way...I mean, I can make you a damn fine deal on chickens or chicken parts, but all them stars and animals' guts just don't interest me terrible much."

"But you are the 'one'!" cried the bald-pated man.

"Look, I don't claim to know about political process and magic and what," explained the youth, "but it seems to me, that there are people in a better spot than me to change things. Politicians and people of influence and so on. Have you tried asking them? I'm sure they'd be willing to help you out."

"But the stars! And the prophets!"

"Well, I don't mean no disrespect, but I wouldn't put much stock in them. Never met a star that'd tell the truth, nor a prophet who wasn't, well, a little--" the youth paused to make gesture that implied insanity was not uncommon among prophets and their ilk. "Now chickens, on the other hand, them I know."

"But--"

"--Look," interrupted the youth, "you're the third sorcerer this week I've told that I'm not interested. Now I don't mean to be rude, but I've got work to do, and a farm to run. Now if you don't mind, you're scaring off business."

The youth turned walked away from the bald-pate, and back into the throng of the market, where he began selling his wares, and the blue-robed sorcerer could but look on.

Nonsense

Snarzzling the frood.

A House Divided...

Night-Self was engrossed in reading a novel, when Morning-Self piped up, "I really think we should be getting to bed. Do you even know what time it is?"

"No. Nor does it matter," answered Night-Self, rather impatiently, wanting to get back to the story which he was so greatly enjoying.

"Consider, please, I pray, how you feel on days when you have failed to sleep sufficiently long," pleaded Morning-Self.

"Look, let's just read to the end of the chapter, then we'll see where we're at."

Morning-Self sighed, acquiescing to the stronger will that was Night-Self.

Two chapters later, Morning-Self intruded once again, "Come on, friend, we should really be sleeping. We have to be up so early tomorrow morning. We'll really be hating life if we don't get some sleep. At least check the time. Come on, just see what time it is."

William, in whose mind dwelt Morning-Self and Night-Self, rolled himself into a position which allowed him to see the red LED lights of his digital alarm-clock.

"See," said Morning-Self, "2:04 A.M. If you go to bed now you can get at least 4 hours of sleep before you have to get up. Please, be reasonable, go to bed."

"Just one more chapter. Indulge me this once, and I'll never do this again."

"Well..." Morning-Self knew that Night-Self was a consummate liar, who would abuse any trust placed in him, and, indeed, had broken many promises before tonight, "...Fine. Read as long as you want, but don't come complaining to me tomorrow when you're out-of-your-mind sleepy."

"I wouldn't dream of it," promised Night-Self.

* * *

William's alarm sounded, and groggily he got up to prepare for a wretched day of sleepiness. Night-Self screamed protest in his brain: "Oh man, it's so early! I'm too tired to deal with this! I should have listened to Morning-Self." In his hidden heart, though, Night-Self knew he would do this again, and he smiled.

Notes 9:06 P.M.

The best flavor of ice-cream in the world has yet to be invented.

Mary and the Lamb

"What bitter-tasting fruit," said Mary to her lamb.

The lamb, whose fleece was white as snow, and who was capable of intelligible human speech, responded lugubriously to Mary's claim: "The better to remind one of life's sorrows."

"What, dear lamb, are you talking about?" asked Mary, her question muffled by a full mouth.

"I am to be tonight's supper," answered the lamb.

"Oh. Pity," said Mary, as she continued to stuff the yet green fruits into her greedy mouth. "These really are so bitter."

Flowers from Stone

In aeonian time, a great crack rent the earth, and, like from some great worm's gorge, came, vomited up, gouts of burning, magmatic bile, whose heat burned and smothered and stilled all life that it touched. Divorced from the earth's sulphurous belly, the bilious extrusion congealed, blackened--marring the earth's face like some horrible scab. And ages passed, and no life came to this place, till some intrepid seed came there and took root, in the shallow soil that wind had born from some haler clime. And life was there again, in that place, to unlive that which the earth had wreaked.

(Photograph taken at King's Bowl, a volcanic rift.)

The Woodsman Hans

"Come hither, child."

Hans continued his brisk pace through the autumnal forest, understanding the hoarsely whispered call as some sussuration of the forest, caused by an errant wind rustling through the dead and fallen leaves.

"Come hither, child."

This time the unbodied voice sounded more urgently, causing Hans to slow his walk. He gripped the axe he held more firmly and scanned the surrounding forest for its source.

Off the narrow path, a little up a small hill, stood a small, bent figure. "But an ancient hermitess," thought Hans, laughingly to himself, "likely needs some mannish errand done." He loosened his grip on his axe, and lifting it, rested the haft upon his shoulder, framing a more friendly and casual pose, and approached the old woman calling out, "Venerable mother, can I offer you any aid? You need but name it, and it is done."

He had reached her but for ten or so paces when his foot caught on a stone, hidden beneath the tumble of leaves, and firmly set in the earth, which caused him to stumble forward, but catching his balance, he righted himself, losing his grip, however, on his axe, which had slipped from his hand and had slid some little distance down the hill. Hans laughed good-naturedly at this bit of clumsiness and turned to go back down the hill to collect his axe.

"Leave it!" The old woman's sharp tone caused Hans to quickly turn his head back in her direction.

The crone's hand--ill-shapen and arthritic, sprouting sickly yellow nails grown overlong and brittle--beckoned him to her and she said almost gently, "Come now, dear child, aid me--your axe shall be unneeded. Come, and help a poor old woman."

"It will be but a moment, venerable mother," and he turned again to retrieve his axe, but he could not take a step. Of a sudden, his body felt as if straight and steely rods were his formerly flexible joints and sinews. His eyes only were not fixed, though he could not close them. Against his will, he felt his body turn around jerkily, as if some he were a marionette controlled by a puppeteer who contorted his limbs unnaturally in some parody of normal motion, until he stood facing the crone.

"You have entered the circle willfully," said the woman triumphantly, "and are mine by rights."

"What is happened?" thought Hans, "Why can I not move? What fell sorcery...In Christ's name I pray--"

Hans' body, in the control of some otherworldly force, forced him to his knees, and thrust back his head.

The old woman came in near to Hans, and with a gloating grin showed her teeth, sharpened to points, and black with rot. Hans could smell the reek of her rotted clothes and sweat, and her unwashed body. Her sparse grey hair was oily and rancid. Her face was pocked and pustulous.

"Into the circle and now is mine!" the hag screached, blowing the fetid stink of her breath into Hans' nostrils.

Peripherally, just barely visible, Hans could now discern an arc of stones, set into the earth, and mostly covered by fallen leaves.

Precocious

"I don't want the bucket!" screamed Ella, throwing the object of her disgust violently against the wall.

"Oh," said Martin, "If that's the case, you don't have to have it." He paused, then asked, "Do you smell something burning?"

Ella made some exaggerated sniffing noises and answered, "Yes. But I still don't want the bucket."

"No. You musn't have the bucket," answered Martin, distractedly. "Where is that burning-smell coming from?"

"What do you mean musn't?"

"I mean if you don't want it, you shan't have it."

"That's not what you meant. You're forbidding me the bucket!"

"If you want the bucket, you may certainly have it."

"It's a trick! I shall have the bucket, and you can't prevent it!"

A black smoke began to emanate from the oven. Martin raced to the oven, opened it, and pulled out a blackened teddy bear.

"Did you put your teddy in the oven, Ella?"

"Yes. Teddy was just saying how cool it was in here, and if I could be of any assistance in that regard."

"So, you set him in the oven?"

"Yes," she paused, then added, "I shall have the bucket now."

Pods and People and Stuff

“So, you’ve discovered what’s been going on here, then?” said the creature to Gary, who was mirror image of the thing addressing him.

It was true, what the creature said. Gary had discovered what had been going on. Aliens from a galaxy unknown—perhaps distant—were replacing human individuals with alien look-alikes. Gary had known about it for a while.

He had learned this information early on in the invasion, having noticed his neighbor acting oddly (read nicely) and found it unusual enough to sneak into his neighbor’s yard, at night, hopping the fence, to see if his neighbor was harboring some mood-altering substances. He didn’t find any (regrettably). He did, however, find, in his neighbor’s greenhouse, a bizarre, sarcophagous, human-sized pod, which contain a half-formed and slimy body, which bore no little resemblance to his neighbor. He immediately recognized this (from popular cinema), as the pod of an alien, human-cloning race. Of course, they weren’t exactly clones. They were plants or something—Gary couldn’t remember.

“Yeah, I know about it,” said Gary in answer to his clone.

“Well?” said Gary-Clone.

“I don’t mind, really. I was thinking about taking a vacation anyway.”

Gary-Clone seemed to puzzle over what Gary had said for a moment, then said, “I’m taking your place, you understand this?”

“Yeah. Take it.”

Again, Gary-Clone puzzled, then spoke, “The human race...we’re taking it over. The planet will be ours. Aren’t you going to try and stop us?”

“You can have it,” answered Gary, nonchalantly, “I was getting bored anyway.”

“You don’t want to try and stop me? Not even a little bit?,” said Gary-Clone, sounding disappointed and needy.

“Nope.”

“Well, I—,” with this Gary-Clone burst into tears and ran from Gary’s presence.

Gary put a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it up. After smoking for a while he said aloud to himself, “Dammit.”

Zeal

"Do you not fear damnation for these blasphemies?" proclaimed the Reverend Cooper, heatedly, to the court and to him whom he accused.

"I do not, Reverend," answered Thomas, the accused.

Reverend Cooper approached Thomas and leaned in close to him and spoke in a whisper, that only he and Thomas should hear the words he next spoke, "Brother, my dear and only brother, who hath shared with me trials and tribulations without number; who did share with me the very womb!--know'st thou not what thou do'st? Death shall be thy sentence! Recant, and save thy soul!"

Thomas considered briefly his answer, which he spoke in a resigned whisper, "Death is the fate of all mankind--I fear it not. My soul, if God be just, is safe. I will not recant."

Reverend Cooper turned from his brother, and again addressed the court, "Let it be promulgated on this day, that Thomas Cooper hath shown himself to be unrepentant with regard to the charge of blasphemy, and that the sentence for such is that the accused shall hang until dead."

The patrons of the court answered as one voice to this proclamation: "Amen."

Moths. Flame.

Moths. Flame.

Aphoristically, Elsbeth’s suitors were drawn to her radiant beauty, courted her for her favor. Elsbeth loved them, and loved that they loved her, and she used them, and delighted in them, and when they became less lustrous in her eyes, when their novelty had expired, she would dismiss them, not uncordially, for some fairer blossom. Elsbeth seemed happy.

But, as moths are drawn to the brighter of two flames, and as the radiance of the moon seems but an ember’s feeble light to the blazing fire of the sun, there came Lorelei. Elsbeth hated Lorelei. In all things, Lorelei was more--her wit, her charm, her beauty--more. And Elsbeth had forgiven Lorelei all these things, save the love Elsbeth lost from her admirers, when she found herself in Lorelei’s presence among their company.

And so Elsbeth sought, with all her cunning, to bring ruin to this fairer light.

* * *

Elsbeth looked at the tears of fear, and shock, and disbelief that carved streaks into Lorelei’s dirty, unwashed face. Upon a raised platform a black-hooded man slipped around Lorelei’s slender neck a thick noose of rough, hempen fibers. Elsbeth smiled. She shone brightest once more.

The Anti-Sauce (Almost)

I knew a man once, who wasn't quite the Anti-Sauce¹, but he was the closest person to him I can ever recall being acquainted with. When ordering, he only ever got sauce on the side--and always had the mayo held. When eating anything which society deemed as being well complemented by a sauce in no small amount, this man would eschew the sauce almost completely.

Take for a simple example the common french fry. Most would agree the french fry needs a bit of sauce, whether ketchup, fry-sauce, or mayonnaise if only to bring out and accentuate the flavor of the of the otherwise bland, fried potato. Now, this man wouldn't say no altogether to the sauce, but with maddening precision would touch a fry to the ketchup, allowing but a single molecule of the substance to adhere to his fry. And he did this without even disturbing the sauce's surface tension! And should more than one ketchup molecule adhere to the fry? It was garbage. You couldn't get the guy to eat it. A single molecule of ketchup per each fry!

His dislike of sauce extended even to milk. Now some may say it is a stretch to call milk a sauce, but, in this, they would be mistaken. Don't bother this guy with the fact that cows will suffer, unmilked, udders nigh to bursting--he doesn't give a damn. "Let 'em suffer," says he, "No sauce shall touch my cereal, be it hot or cold."

No line of reasoning could persuade him there is a beautiful world of sauce out there, waiting for him. No, everything he eats is a self-inflicted punishment, chafing his dry throat as his esophageal muscles propel his food downward. God speed, friend, but may you see the error of your ways!

[1] The Anti-Sauce is a figure from Christian eschatology, who shall for seven years reign over the whole of the world, forbidding the use of sauce in all his dominions. The Anti-Sauce's reign will come to an end, only when the Sauce Savior returns again to earth, banishing the Anti-Sauce to fiery Hell.

Alien Life: 'Taking the Thurmblwumpler for a Space-Walk'

Dear John Elf

Orange Juice

Ruined flesh lay on the table.

* * *

A man, average in build, height and features, took from a kitchen-drawer a long, sharp and glinting knife, pushed the drawer closed, and then turned and made the few steps from the drawer to a table. There, upon the table, was his unmoving victim. Caressingly, he ran his fingers along its smooth, inviolate and naked flesh. He always thought of his victims as it. It made what he had to do easier.

Bringing his hand to his nose, he inhaled some of his victim’s scent where it lingered on his fingertips, and he became excited and greedy. He was ready to begin.

The man held his victim firmly and made a first, tentative incision into its flesh, then cut deeper, and deeper. The flesh parted easily, and a new perfume, grander than the merely external scent was exhaled, deepening the man’s intoxication.

He continued cutting till the body was cut neatly in two at its middle. His work, however, was not yet done. On the table, next to the man’s victim, was a curious device. Its base was a shallow bowl with a lip for pouring; from its center rose up a bullet-shaped cone composed of intersecting flanges, which, when seen from above, resembled some fell and fallen star.

He took hold of the half of his victim and thrust its newly exposed and tender flesh upon the flanged cone, and began twisting, twisting, twisting--rending its flesh upon the device’s flanges, causing gore and fluid to pour forth in runnels from innumerable wounds.

Into the shallow bowl gathered these vital fluids and pulpy membranes, and when this shallow bowl had been filled, he poured what had gathered there into another, separate receptacle. Then he repeated the process with the body’s second half.

This having been done, and when the second receptacle, into which had been poured the fluid and gore of the man’s victim, was full, the man took it to his lips, and with much savoring, drank it all up.

The Fall of Man

A man slipped backward on a carpeted step, three from the bottom, launching into the air two slices of pizza and a cup of fresh-made tea. His arms flailed wildly to stabilize himself, standing, as he was, mid-stride, on but a single unsteady leg. But, finding the empty air around him offered no purchase, he could not halt his predetermined course. Like Antaeus in Heracles' grip, he was aloft, and for some fraction of a second he was completely divorced from any contact with the earth, a terrestrial space-man, and it seemed, as adrenaline sped his brain's activity, that time had slowed down nigh to stopping--a condition he regrettably had little time to contemplate or enjoy, as gravity (to him) seemed to reach into the air, where he was hovering, and to ruthlessly and jealously smash him again to the earth.

In his backward fall, he had not cleared the steps, and so the angular corner of a step punched him in the back, causing black pain to drown out any cogent thought. As the pain ebbed away, and conscious thought returned, he found he had rolled from the steps, and into the stairwell below. Lying there, he began to assess the damage. Am I paralyzed? Is anything broken? Are my kidneys exploded? Then, oddly it may seem to some, he thought, The ten second rule...can my pizza be saved? But, alas, it was not writ in the stars, for the pizza was covered in shedded dog hair.

Now, some may ask, "What became of this man? This man who fell?" And I would tell them, that it is he who tells this tale.

A Question of Camels

"So which is it?" said a mustachioed gentleman wearing a pith helmet, "Is the dromedary the one with single hump? Or the one with the double?"

A second man, wearing a fez, and possessing a prodigious beard, answered, "Well, to me, sir, the 'drom' in dromedary sounds very singular; on that alone I would say the single-hump must be the dromedary."

"Yes," said Pith-Hat, "But that's just what they want one to think; it's merely a trick, a trap, a bugaboo. On that alone, I would guess the opposite: the dromedary is the double-humped bastard."

"Well," said Fez-Man, "your logic there does seem unassailable. If only we could remember the word for the other kind, whether it be one- or two-humped. I do so dislike not having all relevant information at hand."

"Indeed."

A third man, wearing no distinctive hat, nor having any apparent facial hair, but possessing a brutish scar which made its track from brow to lip, stepped forward and injected himself into the conversation, "Bactrian. That's the other word. I don't know if it's for the two-er or the one-er, though."

"I say," said Pith-Hat, rather indignantly, "what are you talking about?"

"Indeed," said Fez-Man, "I don't think this any of your business."

"Yes," said Pith-Hat, "Bugger off!"

Scarred-Face, embarrassed, angry, stomped away from the men he had interrupted.

"What an impudent and ugly churl!" said Pith-Hat.

"Indeed," replied Fez-Man.

Film Review: The Haunting of Molly Hartley

"It's good to be...evil?"

A Dragon in the Mix

February 25, 1933. Wearing a heavy overcoat and an old, well-worn fedora, a dragon stood inconspicuously near the front of a blocks-long breadline.

"I hear there's work down in Wainsville," said a man in the line, who stood directly in front of the dragon.

From behind the dragon, another man spoke in answer to the first, "I was down in Wainsville yesterday. Ain't no work down there. I hear there's work up in Allenton, though."

"No," said the man who had first spoken, "No work up there. I was up there a week ago," he paused, then asked, "Passed along through Bolingbrook way?"

"I have a cousin lives up that way," said the man, who stood behind the dragon, "No work over over that way either."

The breadline inched slowly forward.

"No work to be had anywhere these days, is there, friend?" said the first man.

"No. No work't all," answered the second man.

Silly Geese

"Sif, have you seen my hammer?" thundered a large, great-bearded, Scandian-looking fellow.

"Did you look under the bed?" came back the answer, echoing forth from another room.

"Yes. One of the first places I looked," roared the bearded man.

"Did you look in the closet?"' the voice from the other room answered.

"By Hel's withered dugs, of course I looked in the closet!" One could see the rage building visibly in this great giant of a man's face--his veins throbbed, his thews trembled, his complexion became incarnadine.

"Under the goats?"

"Yes, tarnation! Jörmungandr's teatless, scaly hide, I looked under the goats!''

''Well, where did you have it last?" sang out the voice from the other room, having, this whole time, not lost it's calm and helpful tone, despite the rough, and curse-ridden speech of the great and hairy man.

''Last night, I remember having it, in Valhalla. I was drinking with Loki and then-- Well, dammit! That coxcomb will get a hiding he won't soon forget!" With that, he was out the door, slamming it behind him.

The voice from the other room, now speaking to herself, aloud, said, "Oh what silly geese are men!"

Personal Note

I just voted so hard, next election will feel it! Democracy forever!

Sheepy Reveries

One Cat Too Few

"Nicholas said he would be a cat at least for a day if only you would give him the opportunity," said Eliot to his girlfriend, Lana, a note of exasperation giving his tone a desperate hue.

"But, I don't want him to pretend to be my cat. I want my cat, my real cat, and not just some guy pretending to be my cat--regardless of his credentials," said Lana in reply.

"A cat is a cat," thought Eliot, "even when it's not." "Well," he said, "we'll just have to wait until Mr. Puddins returns from his vacation."

"But, I want a cat now!" exclaimed Lana.

"Fine, but Nicholas will be very disappointed; he hasn't had a role this exciting for some time."

Eliot removed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. "Hello, Nicholas? Yes, this is Eliot.... Yes.... Cancel the cat-suit rental.... Yes.... I know.... I can't help it, Lana refuses.... Yes?... Till later then.... 'Bye.''

Eliot returned his phone to his pocket and turned to Lana, "There. I hope you're satisfied. Nicholas is very put out."

"Well, you didn't have to make it sound like it was my fault."

Eliot sighed, "Well, it was your fault."

Siegfried The Cabbage