"What do you mean it's inappropriate?" shouted a man, whose face was red with rage.
"Honey, please," said a woman, whose pleading tone indicated this was an argument that had been had before.
"Have you lost all hope?" the man raged, "Is God so impotent?"
"It's just, I think the deceased's wife will take it ill," countered the woman.
"You sicken me," replied the irate man, then muttered, "Faithless. Completely faithless."
Exasperated, the woman snapped, "You just can't take a 'Get-Well-Soon' balloon to a funeral, and that's final!"
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
"krummi var að kroppa augu úr lambi..."*
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*(Icelandic) Krummi var að kroppa augu úr lambi: The raven was pecking out the lamb's eye.
**(Latin) Rex Agnorum: King of the Lambs
Monday, December 29, 2008
The Economies of Elves
Some while ago, I happened by a small being, who, being down on his luck, stood at the side of the road, soliciting from passing drivers whatever pittance they could spare.
At the moment I too was down on my luck, and, having no other plans for the day, thought that I might be able to coax from him the story of his misfortunes, and commiserate.
Now, this dwarfish being (I think homunculus is what some call them, it being the proper term) I could tell was not of the race of man, but, possessing prodigious and pointed ears, was likely one of the fair-folk. I guessed an elf, most likely, but I know people don't care to have people pointing out the obvious, so I just walked up to him and said, "Hello, Friend."
Now, this elf-fellow was a pleasant sort, and answered back with a warm but weary smile, and asked me to sit with him as he was just about to take a break from rattling his cup. I obliged and sat next to him, and the elf proceeded to pull from a scrip at his side a sandwich, which he proceeded to carefully divide in two, and then offered me the half.
I took the half of the sandwich after some feeble protestations on my part, but Lord knows I was hungry enough for it. Anyway, we ate in silence and when we were done, we didn't say anything for a bit. Then I piped up about the weather, and the hard times, and that broke the ice.
Seems this elf had been working somewhere up north--well-paid factory work with benefits--when the corporation he was working for hired some big-shot efficiency expert. Now this was all done secret-like, so the workers didn't catch any wind of it. Everything was going along just like it always did for months, when this elf started getting these strange work-orders from the top guy in the corporation.
Normally, the elf said, he was in charge of product development--he was the ideas-man. Now, the big boss told him to scrap all the stuff he had been working on, and devote his energies to industrial robotics. Now, this seemed odd, but the old man had never done him bad before, so he thought, "What the hell."
So he goes about designing all these robots, right? Well, turns out the big boss was using those plans to build these über-efficient machines, which wouldreplace the flesh-and-bloods, and all along this elf-gent and his co-workers were helping!
So, this elf guy is now bumming around for a living, and a machine he designed has got his job.
"Damn," I said.
"Yeah," said the elf.
I got up after awhile, and he did too, and we shook hands and parted ways.
I hope he finds his way.
At the moment I too was down on my luck, and, having no other plans for the day, thought that I might be able to coax from him the story of his misfortunes, and commiserate.
Now, this dwarfish being (I think homunculus is what some call them, it being the proper term) I could tell was not of the race of man, but, possessing prodigious and pointed ears, was likely one of the fair-folk. I guessed an elf, most likely, but I know people don't care to have people pointing out the obvious, so I just walked up to him and said, "Hello, Friend."
Now, this elf-fellow was a pleasant sort, and answered back with a warm but weary smile, and asked me to sit with him as he was just about to take a break from rattling his cup. I obliged and sat next to him, and the elf proceeded to pull from a scrip at his side a sandwich, which he proceeded to carefully divide in two, and then offered me the half.
I took the half of the sandwich after some feeble protestations on my part, but Lord knows I was hungry enough for it. Anyway, we ate in silence and when we were done, we didn't say anything for a bit. Then I piped up about the weather, and the hard times, and that broke the ice.
Seems this elf had been working somewhere up north--well-paid factory work with benefits--when the corporation he was working for hired some big-shot efficiency expert. Now this was all done secret-like, so the workers didn't catch any wind of it. Everything was going along just like it always did for months, when this elf started getting these strange work-orders from the top guy in the corporation.
Normally, the elf said, he was in charge of product development--he was the ideas-man. Now, the big boss told him to scrap all the stuff he had been working on, and devote his energies to industrial robotics. Now, this seemed odd, but the old man had never done him bad before, so he thought, "What the hell."
So he goes about designing all these robots, right? Well, turns out the big boss was using those plans to build these über-efficient machines, which wouldreplace the flesh-and-bloods, and all along this elf-gent and his co-workers were helping!
So, this elf guy is now bumming around for a living, and a machine he designed has got his job.
"Damn," I said.
"Yeah," said the elf.
I got up after awhile, and he did too, and we shook hands and parted ways.
I hope he finds his way.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Revelations
"I was hungry today, so I ate some grass. Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm a cow. Not a beef cow, silly, a dairy cow."
These words appeared with a chime on my instant messaging service. The revelation shocked me. A cow? How could it be that the person I thought I loved (and perhaps still did), the love of my life, was an intimate of the dairy industry--an industry which had destroyed my family?
I shut off my computer.
Everything was beginning to make sense. I knew what I had to do.
These words appeared with a chime on my instant messaging service. The revelation shocked me. A cow? How could it be that the person I thought I loved (and perhaps still did), the love of my life, was an intimate of the dairy industry--an industry which had destroyed my family?
I shut off my computer.
Everything was beginning to make sense. I knew what I had to do.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Sex and Machines
"Was that good for you?" asked lubriciously a grizzled, toothless, sallow- and flab-fleshed man of no small age.
He was on a narrow bed, lying on his side--nude--head supported on his bent arm, dirty sheets tangled about his legs. A sheen of sweat--evidence of passion recently spent--reflected the dull, orange light that poorly illumined a small, sparingly-furnished room. Next to him, on the bed, lay the object of his recent lusts, and the object to which he directed the question which obliquely concerned his own sexual performance.
A few seconds passed. There was no answer to his query. The round, red glow of the optical-interface of the carnally repurposed mining-droid burned steadily, unblinkingly, and the impassive--indeed--immovable features of what one might cruelly call the droid's 'face' betrayed no emotion which would hint at how this creature enjoyed the rubbings and wrigglings of the human which had just finished using its body.
A few more seconds passed. From within the metallic chest of the robot, a whirring sound emanated.
The old man perked up, thinking that the machine might possess after all some primitive sort of post-coitus, erotic, verbal response system.
"If you'd like to continue being serviced," a pleasant woman's voice spoke from within the belly of the mining-bot, "please insert 10 more credits."
Damn, thought the old man, just the 'keep-fucking?' prompt. Well, shouldn't really expect too much from a 10-credit whore-bot.
With that, the withered old man kicked off the tangle of sheets from around his feet, slid to the edge of the bed and, grabbing a pair of pants from the floor, slipped them on. From a night-stand he snatched a bottle, filled less than half-way with a clear liquid, and took from it a pull that emptied it the rest of the way.
He then sat still for a moment on the bed, allowing the liquid to settle in his gut, then said aloud, "What the hell."
He fished around in his pants' pockets, pulling from one of them a card. He then turned and swiped the card through a corresponding slot in the droid, which responded with an approving 'beep'.
He grinned then asked, "Who wants seconds?"
He was on a narrow bed, lying on his side--nude--head supported on his bent arm, dirty sheets tangled about his legs. A sheen of sweat--evidence of passion recently spent--reflected the dull, orange light that poorly illumined a small, sparingly-furnished room. Next to him, on the bed, lay the object of his recent lusts, and the object to which he directed the question which obliquely concerned his own sexual performance.
A few seconds passed. There was no answer to his query. The round, red glow of the optical-interface of the carnally repurposed mining-droid burned steadily, unblinkingly, and the impassive--indeed--immovable features of what one might cruelly call the droid's 'face' betrayed no emotion which would hint at how this creature enjoyed the rubbings and wrigglings of the human which had just finished using its body.
A few more seconds passed. From within the metallic chest of the robot, a whirring sound emanated.
The old man perked up, thinking that the machine might possess after all some primitive sort of post-coitus, erotic, verbal response system.
"If you'd like to continue being serviced," a pleasant woman's voice spoke from within the belly of the mining-bot, "please insert 10 more credits."
Damn, thought the old man, just the 'keep-fucking?' prompt. Well, shouldn't really expect too much from a 10-credit whore-bot.
With that, the withered old man kicked off the tangle of sheets from around his feet, slid to the edge of the bed and, grabbing a pair of pants from the floor, slipped them on. From a night-stand he snatched a bottle, filled less than half-way with a clear liquid, and took from it a pull that emptied it the rest of the way.
He then sat still for a moment on the bed, allowing the liquid to settle in his gut, then said aloud, "What the hell."
He fished around in his pants' pockets, pulling from one of them a card. He then turned and swiped the card through a corresponding slot in the droid, which responded with an approving 'beep'.
He grinned then asked, "Who wants seconds?"
Friday, December 26, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Silence!
The old man could not move. His body--emaciated, sickly-- had ceased to obey the commands of his mind.
This the old man could bear, but his mind too had become diseased, had ceased to be ordered. The fevered tumult of his thoughts would not cease. He could but watch as memories of pains, sorrows, hates, loves, losses all swam in unending, unbidden, ineluctable succession through his mind. Fearful juxtapositions thereof arose like terrible obelisks from his unconscious mind, only to dash themselves again into those benighted climes.
He saw himself simultaneously in the thousand contradictory guises of a mortal life: victim; victor; child; man; youth; ancient; oppressor; oppressed; liar; truth-teller.
These visions seduced the old man, repulsed him, shattered him, built him up anew--they became a strain he could not bear.
For how long these discordant visions assailed him, the old man could not say, but as each vision passed before him, he began to discern a figure whom he didn't know, whose countenance remained unchanged amidst the chaotic, tempestuousness of his thoughts. This figure had the face and the form of a beautiful youth, who wore a dark cloak and who merrily, with grinning face, called out to the old man across his fractured memories.
A creeping terror beset the old man, "Who is this unknown youth, and why does he call to me?"
The old man's terror became greater as slowly, imperceptibly at first, this youth who had at first called to the old man as if from across a vast plane, with each passing vision began to come nearer and nearer.
When at last, in his mind, the youth stood directly before the old man, the old man suddenly recognized who this child was. The old man's fear was banished, and he greeted joyfully the object of his former terror: "Death, O sweet bearer of oblivion! Pass to my lips the cup wherein are born lethean waters! Banish the memories which plague me!"
The old man collapsed into the waiting arms of the youth, and at last there was silence.
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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: 'Silence'.
This the old man could bear, but his mind too had become diseased, had ceased to be ordered. The fevered tumult of his thoughts would not cease. He could but watch as memories of pains, sorrows, hates, loves, losses all swam in unending, unbidden, ineluctable succession through his mind. Fearful juxtapositions thereof arose like terrible obelisks from his unconscious mind, only to dash themselves again into those benighted climes.
He saw himself simultaneously in the thousand contradictory guises of a mortal life: victim; victor; child; man; youth; ancient; oppressor; oppressed; liar; truth-teller.
These visions seduced the old man, repulsed him, shattered him, built him up anew--they became a strain he could not bear.
For how long these discordant visions assailed him, the old man could not say, but as each vision passed before him, he began to discern a figure whom he didn't know, whose countenance remained unchanged amidst the chaotic, tempestuousness of his thoughts. This figure had the face and the form of a beautiful youth, who wore a dark cloak and who merrily, with grinning face, called out to the old man across his fractured memories.
A creeping terror beset the old man, "Who is this unknown youth, and why does he call to me?"
The old man's terror became greater as slowly, imperceptibly at first, this youth who had at first called to the old man as if from across a vast plane, with each passing vision began to come nearer and nearer.
When at last, in his mind, the youth stood directly before the old man, the old man suddenly recognized who this child was. The old man's fear was banished, and he greeted joyfully the object of his former terror: "Death, O sweet bearer of oblivion! Pass to my lips the cup wherein are born lethean waters! Banish the memories which plague me!"
The old man collapsed into the waiting arms of the youth, and at last there was silence.
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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: 'Silence'.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
The World Ceased For A Moment
Night.
I was driving, when suddenly it seemed almost the entire world blinked out of existence. Only the small space of road illumined in my headlights offered my senses any proof that I still found myself on the terrestrial plane. There were no other cars, no city lights, no roadsigns or billboards. I felt almost as in a dream, and behind me, where I couldn't see, the world ceased to exist, only to be created anew if I turned again in that direction. I felt as if I, or perhaps the whole world, were transformed into the huldra of scandavian myth, whose front presented a normal appearance, but whose back was hollow--empty like a rotted-out tree. I was floating in a black plane, only loosely tethered to the earth--was this how it felt to be outside the earth, hovering in empty, star-strewn space?
Then, just as suddenly as it had ceased to exist, the world sprang back into being. Cars' headlights, red and white, streamed by; signs expressing the distance to nearby towns reared up; and guardrails raced along side me.
But the world, if only for a moment, had ceased to be.
I was driving, when suddenly it seemed almost the entire world blinked out of existence. Only the small space of road illumined in my headlights offered my senses any proof that I still found myself on the terrestrial plane. There were no other cars, no city lights, no roadsigns or billboards. I felt almost as in a dream, and behind me, where I couldn't see, the world ceased to exist, only to be created anew if I turned again in that direction. I felt as if I, or perhaps the whole world, were transformed into the huldra of scandavian myth, whose front presented a normal appearance, but whose back was hollow--empty like a rotted-out tree. I was floating in a black plane, only loosely tethered to the earth--was this how it felt to be outside the earth, hovering in empty, star-strewn space?
Then, just as suddenly as it had ceased to exist, the world sprang back into being. Cars' headlights, red and white, streamed by; signs expressing the distance to nearby towns reared up; and guardrails raced along side me.
But the world, if only for a moment, had ceased to be.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Against Wens
As the new year approaches, I want to remind my readers that now is a good time to protect yourself against wens. Luckily, the Anglo-Saxons have a already invented a little charm which is intended to prevent or cure any wens you might or do have.
Additionally, I have consulted with several in the Witching-community, and they have assured me, that reciting the charm that follows in its modern English form (provided for those without familiarity with Old-English) will in no way diminish the effectiveness of this spell. So, without further ado, a spell against wens:
1. O wen-a, wen-a, wenikin!
Here thou shalt not timber, nor have any toft;
Rather thou shalt north, hence, to yonder hill,
Where thou hast, wretch, a brother.
2. He shall lay a leaf at thine head--
Under wolf’s foot; under eagle’s wing;
Under eagle's claw: may thou ever perish.
3. Burn thou up like a coal on the hearth;
Wash thou away even as shearn in a stream;
Perish thou away even as water in a pitcher.
4. May thou become so small as a linseed-corn,
and as mickleless as a hand-worm’s hipbone;
May thou become so little, that thou become nothing at all.
Additionally, I have consulted with several in the Witching-community, and they have assured me, that reciting the charm that follows in its modern English form (provided for those without familiarity with Old-English) will in no way diminish the effectiveness of this spell. So, without further ado, a spell against wens:
1. O wen-a, wen-a, wenikin!
Here thou shalt not timber, nor have any toft;
Rather thou shalt north, hence, to yonder hill,
Where thou hast, wretch, a brother.
i. Wenne, wenne, wenchichenne,
her ne scealt þu timbrien, ne nenne tun habben,
ac þu scealt north eonene to þan nihgan berhge,
þer þu hauest, ermig, enne broþer.
2. He shall lay a leaf at thine head--
Under wolf’s foot; under eagle’s wing;
Under eagle's claw: may thou ever perish.
ii. He þe sceal legge leaf et heafde.
Under fot wolues, under ueþer earnes,
under earnes clea, a þu geweornie.
3. Burn thou up like a coal on the hearth;
Wash thou away even as shearn in a stream;
Perish thou away even as water in a pitcher.
iii. Clinge þu alswa col on heorþe,
scring þu alswa scerne on waege,
and weorne alswa weter on anbre.
4. May thou become so small as a linseed-corn,
and as mickleless as a hand-worm’s hipbone;
May thou become so little, that thou become nothing at all.
iv. Swa litel þu gewurþe alswa linsetcorn,
and miccli lesse alswa anes handwurmes hupeban, and
alswa litel þu gewurþe þet þu nawiht gewurþe.
________________________
Monday, December 22, 2008
Shall He Live?
Having recently seen The Day the Earth Stood Still--wherein is made a weakly argument for the continued existence of the human race against the threat of its annihilation by an alien force (the argument being no less facile than "humans have got heart")--I thought I would put in my two cents with regard to the question: "Should mankind be allowed to continue to exist?"
In short, my answer is 'no', they shouldn't. Mankind's behavior during this holiday season has exhausted any supply of goodwill which I have heretofore maintained for him. Now, this may sound as if I am venting undo spleen toward my fellow man, but if only you had seen the monstrous transformations I have seen take place---I shudder at the mere thought. It can only lead me to suspect that at man's core, he is no more than a petty, small-minded being, who acts out with viciousness against his fellow, following an ancient and bloody pattern demanded in the struggle for survival. At least the dumb animal doesn't knowingly carry out malice toward his fellow; but in man it is inexcusable. So, I guess I'm saying with regard to man, interficiat, and good riddance.
In short, my answer is 'no', they shouldn't. Mankind's behavior during this holiday season has exhausted any supply of goodwill which I have heretofore maintained for him. Now, this may sound as if I am venting undo spleen toward my fellow man, but if only you had seen the monstrous transformations I have seen take place---I shudder at the mere thought. It can only lead me to suspect that at man's core, he is no more than a petty, small-minded being, who acts out with viciousness against his fellow, following an ancient and bloody pattern demanded in the struggle for survival. At least the dumb animal doesn't knowingly carry out malice toward his fellow; but in man it is inexcusable. So, I guess I'm saying with regard to man, interficiat, and good riddance.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
An Apology (Though Not A Heartfelt One)
Dear Readers,
Today I wish to extend an apology to you for yesterday's lackluster post, "'Xploding Santa". As fate would have it, I arrived home exhausted from my travels, and, falling almost instantly asleep when I arrived home, awoke some time later realizing I had not yet posted for the day. Thus, the post you read yesterday was the product of a Volker The Fiddler in a completely zombified state, which precluded any creative exploration, which Volker believes he often provides his readers. Many of you may recall that I only recently did another post about exploding, "A Bat Explodes," which, if you haven't read it, at least know that it is superior in every way to yesterday's post. Again, my apologies.
Now that that's out of the way, I find it necessary to apologize again, for what you are even now reading is going to be today's post. Today I thought to myself, "You know, I should really apologize for yesterday's post being of so poor a quality, and use that apology to fulfill my self-imposed quota of at least one post containing new content every day." Then I thought, "Am I really ok using this apology as my content for the day?" The answer, of course, is 'yes'. So, this is it. Do I ask your forgiveness? No, I'm too arrogant for that. I will, however, strive to continue to put out content of surpassing excellence in the future.
Sincerely,
Volker The Fiddler
Volker The Fiddler
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Greatest Lover I've Ever Known
Just the other day, I involved myself in a conversation concerning lovers both past and present. As the participants in this conversation chronicled various lovers' attributes--beauty, brains, technique, etc.--I came to the realization that the finest lover I had ever known was none other than myself. None had pleased me so well, nor was so inventive in the bedroom as was I. Every fantasy I could invent could find its satisfaction, quite literally, at my fingertips.
Now, this may sound like quite a challenge to my future and potential lovers--it is--particularly to any males lovers (I am not a homosexual), but it should not daunt any who wish to try and usurp my place at the pinnacle of Temple of Venus.
Now, this may sound like quite a challenge to my future and potential lovers--it is--particularly to any males lovers (I am not a homosexual), but it should not daunt any who wish to try and usurp my place at the pinnacle of Temple of Venus.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
God gives birth...to himself...yet again.
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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: 'Metaphysics'.
Bad Omen
Though I wouldn't generally consider myself the superstitious sort, whenever I am performing my morning toilette, and it comes time to put on my underclothes, I am very cautious to make sure that I don't put them on backwards. Occasionally, however, my vigilance slips, and I do put an article of clothing on backwards. Now this may seem a small and easily correctable mistake--it is--but the very fact that it has happened causes me to think that it will be an ill-omened day.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
God and Me
"God?"
"Yes?"
God turned toward me, his face serious. I could tell that he had heard in my voice the weight of all my ponderings concerning his governance of the universe, built up--dammed up--behind my utterance of, well, not really his name, but his title. I had never actually thought about it before then, but 'God' really is more of a title than a name, isn't it? Well anyway, God's face was serious; he could tell I really had thought out this question I was about to ask him, and he was getting ready to answer, and I could tell this time he wouldn't answer with one of his jokes. Damned funny, sure, but they had a way of putting you off from getting an answer from him.
"You're not very good at this, are you?"
I asked it, just like that, right to his face.
Now I could see that this stung God a bit, but he got over it quick, and really chewed on it for a space, and I knew that he was wrestling over just the right thing to say, and how much truth he wanted to put in it, and how much lie--but finally he looked me square in the eye and said:
"No. Not really."
Now I could've acted smug about it, for his answer pretty well confirmed what I'd been thinking for a a while now, but I could see right now God was pretty shook, and could probably use a friend, so I just leaned in close, and told God 'thanks'.
We sat quiet for a while, side by side, thinking our private thoughts in the stillness. Then, after a bit of that quiet, God laughed, and I asked him what he was laughing at, and he told me, and then I laughed too.
After that, we never talked again about all that stuff, but I'm glad we did the once.
"Yes?"
God turned toward me, his face serious. I could tell that he had heard in my voice the weight of all my ponderings concerning his governance of the universe, built up--dammed up--behind my utterance of, well, not really his name, but his title. I had never actually thought about it before then, but 'God' really is more of a title than a name, isn't it? Well anyway, God's face was serious; he could tell I really had thought out this question I was about to ask him, and he was getting ready to answer, and I could tell this time he wouldn't answer with one of his jokes. Damned funny, sure, but they had a way of putting you off from getting an answer from him.
"You're not very good at this, are you?"
I asked it, just like that, right to his face.
Now I could see that this stung God a bit, but he got over it quick, and really chewed on it for a space, and I knew that he was wrestling over just the right thing to say, and how much truth he wanted to put in it, and how much lie--but finally he looked me square in the eye and said:
"No. Not really."
Now I could've acted smug about it, for his answer pretty well confirmed what I'd been thinking for a a while now, but I could see right now God was pretty shook, and could probably use a friend, so I just leaned in close, and told God 'thanks'.
We sat quiet for a while, side by side, thinking our private thoughts in the stillness. Then, after a bit of that quiet, God laughed, and I asked him what he was laughing at, and he told me, and then I laughed too.
After that, we never talked again about all that stuff, but I'm glad we did the once.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Don't Critique My Murder!
"Excuse me but--"
"--Yes?"
"Well, I couldn't help but notice you're murdering me by stabbing me in the face."
"And?"
"It's just taking so long. I mean, you're not aiming for my eye or anything, which could puncture through to my brain, ending my discomfort. You just keep jabbing your knife into the bony, skull-y parts."
"Well, I do appreciate your criticism, but I just like doing it this way."
"Oh. Sorry to have interrupted. Please, continue."
"--Yes?"
"Well, I couldn't help but notice you're murdering me by stabbing me in the face."
"And?"
"It's just taking so long. I mean, you're not aiming for my eye or anything, which could puncture through to my brain, ending my discomfort. You just keep jabbing your knife into the bony, skull-y parts."
"Well, I do appreciate your criticism, but I just like doing it this way."
"Oh. Sorry to have interrupted. Please, continue."
Monday, December 15, 2008
Prophets? Rock-And-Rollers?
"After that thou shalt come to the hill of God, where is the garrison of the Philistines: and it shall come to pass, when thou art come thither to the city, that thou shalt meet a company of prophets* coming down from the high place with a psaltery, and a tabret, and a pipe, and a harp, before them; and they shall prophesy*..."1 Samuel 10:5
Sorry, but was I entirely mistaken about the purpose of a prophet? It seems the ancient prophet was more musician than seer. Perhaps we should consider those whose calling is music as the chosen mouthpiece of God on earth, and ignore anyone who claims to speak for true religion if they don't have a psaltery in hand--or an electric guitar (after all, times do change).
*emphasis by author
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A Geometer Answers For His Knavish Conduct
"Geometer! Show yourself!" shouted a richly attired nobleman, who stood in a forest clearing, at whose center stood a large grey-stoned tower.
No one revealed himself, and the stone of the tower, and its barred, iron-banded door seemed unwilling to produce the intended recipient of the nobleman's shouts.
"Open this door to me, you blackguard!" the nobleman cried, "You'll pay in blood for what you did to my daughter!"
Still, there was no apparent response from the tower. The nobleman pounded on the door to the tower, then, tiring, sat down.
After resting for a bit, the nobleman stood up again, and turned his face up to the tower, straining to see some movement in one of the narrow windows higher along the tower's face.
When the nobleman was about to give up, a hand stretched forth from a window above, and let go a small piece of paper.
The paper floated gently down from the near the tower's top, landing at the nobleman's feet. The nobleman picked it up.
The paper was cut into a triangle, and was neatly labeled--as one might expect from a geometer--with the degree that formed each of the triangle's angles.
The nobleman didn't find the triangle a very satisfying answer.
No one revealed himself, and the stone of the tower, and its barred, iron-banded door seemed unwilling to produce the intended recipient of the nobleman's shouts.
"Open this door to me, you blackguard!" the nobleman cried, "You'll pay in blood for what you did to my daughter!"
Still, there was no apparent response from the tower. The nobleman pounded on the door to the tower, then, tiring, sat down.
After resting for a bit, the nobleman stood up again, and turned his face up to the tower, straining to see some movement in one of the narrow windows higher along the tower's face.
When the nobleman was about to give up, a hand stretched forth from a window above, and let go a small piece of paper.
The paper floated gently down from the near the tower's top, landing at the nobleman's feet. The nobleman picked it up.
The paper was cut into a triangle, and was neatly labeled--as one might expect from a geometer--with the degree that formed each of the triangle's angles.
The nobleman didn't find the triangle a very satisfying answer.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Gentle Lies
"My, what a vast assortment of jams!" exclaimed Suzy, her eyes wide as dinner-plates with wonder.
"Yes," said Granny Jilbo, "In fact, it is the most vast. I have in this vault jams made from every fruit known to man, beast or god. Have you heard, perhaps, of Gilberdoo-fruit? No? It is extinct now, but the jam still exists, to bear witness of it."
Suzy's mouth was an 'O' of wonder.
"And just think," said Granny Jilbo, "all of this will be yours when I pass."
Suzy's face lit up at that and she smiled, but then the last words Granny had spoken penetrated her understanding, and she frowned.
"Granny," Suzy pleaded, "Please don't go! I would be so sad!"
Granny smiled a pained smile, and promised, "Okay, Suzy, I won't go."
Suzy smiled once more, and skipped deeper into the jam-vault, singing a nonsense-song.
"Yes," said Granny Jilbo, "In fact, it is the most vast. I have in this vault jams made from every fruit known to man, beast or god. Have you heard, perhaps, of Gilberdoo-fruit? No? It is extinct now, but the jam still exists, to bear witness of it."
Suzy's mouth was an 'O' of wonder.
"And just think," said Granny Jilbo, "all of this will be yours when I pass."
Suzy's face lit up at that and she smiled, but then the last words Granny had spoken penetrated her understanding, and she frowned.
"Granny," Suzy pleaded, "Please don't go! I would be so sad!"
Granny smiled a pained smile, and promised, "Okay, Suzy, I won't go."
Suzy smiled once more, and skipped deeper into the jam-vault, singing a nonsense-song.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX.-----X
The rumors that swam in the warm, heavy air of Pharaoh's court had it, that the strange, age-riddled supplicants who even now addressed the god-incarnate's throne, were foreign-born sorcerers.
Of the one, I, Panahasi, servant to Meti the Priest, could believe it--that he was alien to these lands--but the other, when he spoke, spoke like a true-born Egyptian.
That I was here, in Pharaoh's great, many-pillared throne room was no small thing for one of so humble a birth as mine, but today, my master, who usually was content to leave me behind on his errands of state, favored me to join a party of servants to accompany him to the palace--charged with the task of bearing one of the great cedar chests which contained the Pharaoh's share of tithes, which the priests had gathered at at the temple of Set, which god my master most worshiped, and by extension I most worshiped too. But I digress--where was I? Oh yes, the sorcerers.
They had waited before us in the train of petitioners who sought audience with Pharaoh, leaning on long staves whenever the line ceased to move forward, which was often. Our party--myself, my master, and his other servants--stood only ten or so paces behind them in line, when the sorcerers were summoned before the king.
These two men walked solemnly to the foot of the dais upon which Pharaoh's throne stood. Without making any obeisance--which shocked the court--one of the rumored sorcerers began to speak: "The Lord God of the Hebrews has sent me unto you, Pharaoh, to demand that you remove the yoke of bondage which you have chained about the Hebrews' necks."
Hearing his speech, then, for the first time (though I have already made comment concerning it) made me think, despite the rumors to the contrary, that, though his words were strange, he was no stranger to Egypt, but her native son. I looked in the faces of my fellow servants, and that of my master: "Who were these men who so impudently demanded the Pharaoh cut loose his rightful property?" I turned my eyes from the petitioners of the court to Pharaoh himself, wondering how he would react to such insolence.
At first, Pharaoh did not speak, and his face remained unmoved--neither taking on wrathful nor mirthful mien. Then, Pharaoh's eyes became mocking, and he answered the sorcerer that had spoken: "Who? Which of the gods demand of me this boon? Thoth, Ptah, Kheper, Ra? Or, if you prefer, Inanna, Marduk, Anu? Arinna, Athirat, Telepinu? You see, I know many gods, but I have never heard of this 'God of the Hebrews'. Is he the same who led your people into bondage? Is he the god who put the whips in our hands? Is he the same who allowed your people to be our slaves?"
The tension that had been building, for fear of Pharaoh's reaction was shattered. The whole court laughed at Pharaoh's speech, and I with them--it was plain to all, that the Hebrews' god was a weak one.
"Now...," Pharaoh spoke again to the sorcerers after the the laughter had ceased, "Now unless you have some serious business in this court, I suggest that you leave." I detected a note of menace in Pharaoh's voice, and shuddered to think what would become of these strangers if they did not heed his command.
The first sorcerer turned to his companion, who had not yet spoken, and commanded him to cast down his staff upon the ground. His companion did so, and, of a sudden, there was no staff upon the ground, but a great, coiled serpent!
I gasped, and so did many in Pharaoh's court, but I saw that my master was not at all surprised, nor were the priests of Pharaoh who attended him on the dais.
Pharaoh merely laughed at the display of this sorcerer, and raised his hand, gesturing to his priests. The priests, who carried in their hands long rods--symbols of their office--descended from the dais, and did like the sorcerer: they cast their rods to the ground, where they too became coiling, writhing snakes.
"Does your god have no more power than that?" Pharaoh mocked, ostensibly unimpressed by the petty display of the Hebrew god's sorcery.
"Aye!" shouted the second of the foreign sorcerers, who had not yet spoken, "For it was He who carved from the void the very earth! It was He who breathed life into your very nostrils!"
"Enough!" cried Pharaoh. "Away with you and your magician's trifles, and grand requests. Trouble our court no more, unless you wish death."
The first sorcerer spoke again, "We shall leave, but know this: our people's days in your kingdom are few, our God more powerful than you can guess or fathom. You shall know his wrath ere this day passes!"
Of the one, I, Panahasi, servant to Meti the Priest, could believe it--that he was alien to these lands--but the other, when he spoke, spoke like a true-born Egyptian.
That I was here, in Pharaoh's great, many-pillared throne room was no small thing for one of so humble a birth as mine, but today, my master, who usually was content to leave me behind on his errands of state, favored me to join a party of servants to accompany him to the palace--charged with the task of bearing one of the great cedar chests which contained the Pharaoh's share of tithes, which the priests had gathered at at the temple of Set, which god my master most worshiped, and by extension I most worshiped too. But I digress--where was I? Oh yes, the sorcerers.
They had waited before us in the train of petitioners who sought audience with Pharaoh, leaning on long staves whenever the line ceased to move forward, which was often. Our party--myself, my master, and his other servants--stood only ten or so paces behind them in line, when the sorcerers were summoned before the king.
These two men walked solemnly to the foot of the dais upon which Pharaoh's throne stood. Without making any obeisance--which shocked the court--one of the rumored sorcerers began to speak: "The Lord God of the Hebrews has sent me unto you, Pharaoh, to demand that you remove the yoke of bondage which you have chained about the Hebrews' necks."
Hearing his speech, then, for the first time (though I have already made comment concerning it) made me think, despite the rumors to the contrary, that, though his words were strange, he was no stranger to Egypt, but her native son. I looked in the faces of my fellow servants, and that of my master: "Who were these men who so impudently demanded the Pharaoh cut loose his rightful property?" I turned my eyes from the petitioners of the court to Pharaoh himself, wondering how he would react to such insolence.
At first, Pharaoh did not speak, and his face remained unmoved--neither taking on wrathful nor mirthful mien. Then, Pharaoh's eyes became mocking, and he answered the sorcerer that had spoken: "Who? Which of the gods demand of me this boon? Thoth, Ptah, Kheper, Ra? Or, if you prefer, Inanna, Marduk, Anu? Arinna, Athirat, Telepinu? You see, I know many gods, but I have never heard of this 'God of the Hebrews'. Is he the same who led your people into bondage? Is he the god who put the whips in our hands? Is he the same who allowed your people to be our slaves?"
The tension that had been building, for fear of Pharaoh's reaction was shattered. The whole court laughed at Pharaoh's speech, and I with them--it was plain to all, that the Hebrews' god was a weak one.
"Now...," Pharaoh spoke again to the sorcerers after the the laughter had ceased, "Now unless you have some serious business in this court, I suggest that you leave." I detected a note of menace in Pharaoh's voice, and shuddered to think what would become of these strangers if they did not heed his command.
The first sorcerer turned to his companion, who had not yet spoken, and commanded him to cast down his staff upon the ground. His companion did so, and, of a sudden, there was no staff upon the ground, but a great, coiled serpent!
I gasped, and so did many in Pharaoh's court, but I saw that my master was not at all surprised, nor were the priests of Pharaoh who attended him on the dais.
Pharaoh merely laughed at the display of this sorcerer, and raised his hand, gesturing to his priests. The priests, who carried in their hands long rods--symbols of their office--descended from the dais, and did like the sorcerer: they cast their rods to the ground, where they too became coiling, writhing snakes.
"Does your god have no more power than that?" Pharaoh mocked, ostensibly unimpressed by the petty display of the Hebrew god's sorcery.
"Aye!" shouted the second of the foreign sorcerers, who had not yet spoken, "For it was He who carved from the void the very earth! It was He who breathed life into your very nostrils!"
"Enough!" cried Pharaoh. "Away with you and your magician's trifles, and grand requests. Trouble our court no more, unless you wish death."
The first sorcerer spoke again, "We shall leave, but know this: our people's days in your kingdom are few, our God more powerful than you can guess or fathom. You shall know his wrath ere this day passes!"
* * *
When I returned home from court that night, I told my dear wife and son--my first born, only seven years of age, and inheritor of my meager wealth--what had transpired, and we all thought it a very odd thing.
___________
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: 'impending doom'.
___________
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: 'impending doom'.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Surprises, Both Good and Bad
In life, there are surprises. Some of these surprises are good, others bad. What if, however, they could partially inhabit the same spheres--overlap one another a bit? Say, for example, one is visiting his doctor to get the results of a biopsy, which will determine whether or not he has cancer. He waits nervously alone in the examination room while his doctor is retrieving the results. Suddenly, his doctor appears at the door with cake, decorated with those neat candles which sparkle--how unexpected! How delightful! The doctor presents the cake to the waiting patient, who can now read what is written in frosting across the top: "Sorry, you do have cancer!" or "You've only got 3 months to live!" I imagine the results of such an intertwining of good and ill surprises would be rather interesting to observe.
You, Thou, Thine and Yours
Today I found myself vainly trying to convince a coworker of the necessity for the return of the 'thou' form in English, or, if not 'thou', then an equivalent singular form.
The tacit need for a plural 'you' has come to express itself with several variation on 'you', which have achieved some currency, including, y'all, all y'all, and yous. I am not terrible pleased with these, and would suggest a return to a 'thou'-singular, 'you'-plural English.
I am not, however, arguing that there should be in English a 'formal' and 'informal' you, as is common with many European languages--I'm as much against grammatically mandated deference as the next guy. The inconvenience, though, of not having a clearly delineated singular and plural 'you' is great. For example, when I wish my greeting to extend to both members of a pair, or group of people, asking, perhaps, 'How are you?'--the 'you' in this case hardly seems to suffice to include all members of the group. Or, when I need to invite a group of people to something, 'you' just doesn't feel inclusive enough.
So, let's bring 'em back, these oldies but goodies: thou, thee, thy; ye, you, yours.
The tacit need for a plural 'you' has come to express itself with several variation on 'you', which have achieved some currency, including, y'all, all y'all, and yous. I am not terrible pleased with these, and would suggest a return to a 'thou'-singular, 'you'-plural English.
I am not, however, arguing that there should be in English a 'formal' and 'informal' you, as is common with many European languages--I'm as much against grammatically mandated deference as the next guy. The inconvenience, though, of not having a clearly delineated singular and plural 'you' is great. For example, when I wish my greeting to extend to both members of a pair, or group of people, asking, perhaps, 'How are you?'--the 'you' in this case hardly seems to suffice to include all members of the group. Or, when I need to invite a group of people to something, 'you' just doesn't feel inclusive enough.
So, let's bring 'em back, these oldies but goodies: thou, thee, thy; ye, you, yours.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Centaur Babes: Worst Thing Ever?
Stop me if you've heard this before, but aren't baby centaurs the worst thing ever? So, there's the body of a foal, that straight out of the birth canal is ready and raring to go, frisking about within the first few hours of life, and attached to this foal's body, is the body of a human infant--oversized head upon a wimpy neck, crying, and arms flailing. This is, to me, a recipe for a disaster. A human infant can't even sit up on its own, and here it is, attached to the body of a horse. The whiplash from the frolicking and caprioling horse-half alone, I would guess, is enough to break the neck of human part of the newborn centaur. Really, it's no wonder these creatures have gone extinct--nature cobbled together two creatures that had no business being part of the same body.
Me and Grabeel
This fantasy occurred to me the other day:
Lucas Grabeel, stylishly-attired, is driving down a dusty stretch of two-lane desert highway in a restored 1941 Packer Convertible, top down. I am riding shotgun. We are laughing and joking, and sipping on some delicious cold beverages, which we pull from the cooler that sits between us on the seat. The warm wind is blowing our flowing, golden locks behind us. We haven't seen another car in ages, when some space yet before us, we see one in apparent distress, pulled off to the right side of the road. As we near, Lucas applies pressure to the brakes, slowing down the convertible. We come to a stop parallel to the distressed vehicle.
Lucas calls out, "Hey, need a hand, buddy?"
It is then, that fate and circumstance play an unlikely hand. From out behind the car, holding a tire-iron and wearing a white tank top, rises Grabeel's sometime co-star, Zac Efron. Zac's face is dirty with grease, and he is sweating profusely.
"Hey, Efron," sneers Lucas, "Looks like we're having a bit of car-trouble."
I snicker meanly at Lucas' apparent disdain for Efron, and then say loudly, sardonically, "Zac Efron? More like 'Snack Snefron'."
At my juvenile mockery of Zac's name, Lucas laughs, and revs the engine of the convertible.
"Later, sucker!" Grabeel cries, loosening the clutch, launching the convertible forward down the road.
Lucas Grabeel, stylishly-attired, is driving down a dusty stretch of two-lane desert highway in a restored 1941 Packer Convertible, top down. I am riding shotgun. We are laughing and joking, and sipping on some delicious cold beverages, which we pull from the cooler that sits between us on the seat. The warm wind is blowing our flowing, golden locks behind us. We haven't seen another car in ages, when some space yet before us, we see one in apparent distress, pulled off to the right side of the road. As we near, Lucas applies pressure to the brakes, slowing down the convertible. We come to a stop parallel to the distressed vehicle.
Lucas calls out, "Hey, need a hand, buddy?"
It is then, that fate and circumstance play an unlikely hand. From out behind the car, holding a tire-iron and wearing a white tank top, rises Grabeel's sometime co-star, Zac Efron. Zac's face is dirty with grease, and he is sweating profusely.
"Hey, Efron," sneers Lucas, "Looks like we're having a bit of car-trouble."
I snicker meanly at Lucas' apparent disdain for Efron, and then say loudly, sardonically, "Zac Efron? More like 'Snack Snefron'."
At my juvenile mockery of Zac's name, Lucas laughs, and revs the engine of the convertible.
"Later, sucker!" Grabeel cries, loosening the clutch, launching the convertible forward down the road.
Monday, December 8, 2008
America Revolts! Caffeine Deprivation Suspected
As I sit down to write this, I find myself as tea-less as the day I was born. Now, to those of you, who live wretchedly without a caffeine addiction, you may be surprised to learn, that when one does not get his daily dose of caffeine (which I generally get from several cups of black tea), one becomes extremely tired, irritable, and grumpy; or, at least, such is the case with me.
Now, if one calls to mind his American history, he will remember that when England still held imperial sway in the colonies, the British Parliament increased the import tax, which led to an American boycott of English goods--tea being one such good. Now, at this time, the American people weren't getting their 'ffeine-fix, which tea normally supplied, when the tea was flowing freely at a reasonable price. This being the case, the American populace became tired, grumpy and irritable--tired, grumpy and irritable enough to divorce itself from English Rule.
So, to put it plainly, caffeine addiction was an important--perhaps, the most important-- impetus in the war for American independence. America wouldn't be America today, without this mild stimulant.
I'm going to go make some tea now.
Now, if one calls to mind his American history, he will remember that when England still held imperial sway in the colonies, the British Parliament increased the import tax, which led to an American boycott of English goods--tea being one such good. Now, at this time, the American people weren't getting their 'ffeine-fix, which tea normally supplied, when the tea was flowing freely at a reasonable price. This being the case, the American populace became tired, grumpy and irritable--tired, grumpy and irritable enough to divorce itself from English Rule.
So, to put it plainly, caffeine addiction was an important--perhaps, the most important-- impetus in the war for American independence. America wouldn't be America today, without this mild stimulant.
I'm going to go make some tea now.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Boxes In The Road
Every now and then, when driving, I encounter a box in the road. Now, when confronted with this particular type of obstacle, I do as most would do--avoid it--but perhaps not for the same reasons others do. When I see a box in the road, an utterly irrational voice in my mind always pipes up, saying, "Hey, don't run into that box--what if it's full of puppies? Or worse, orphans?" Then, I always feel a twinge of guilt, and a twist of horror in my gut, as I imagine my wheels grinding some puppies or orphans into the asphalt.
Well, I just thought I would share that. Hopefully, this paranoia can affect everyone else, now that I've let it loose into the world.
Well, I just thought I would share that. Hopefully, this paranoia can affect everyone else, now that I've let it loose into the world.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
A Bat Explodes
A bat--furry and winged--exploded for no discernible reason.
The bat's final thought, which it managed to get out while exploding, was: "There is no reason why I should be exploding."
The bat's final thought, which it managed to get out while exploding, was: "There is no reason why I should be exploding."
Friday, December 5, 2008
A Cynic's 'Top O' the Morning'
The wide-famed cynic Roscoe Liliburn exited his brick townhouse and went down the steps that led from his front door to the sidewalk. From the side of Roscoe's mouth sprang a dark-stained pipe upon which he was puffing, sending small white clouds of smoke into the air. He was wearing today--and, indeed, wore everyday--a finely woven tweed suit.
At the bottom of the stair which led to his front door, he encountered the neighborhood street-sweeper, whom he greeted cordially: "Hello, how are you today, Thaddeus?"
The street-street sweeper, who wore a light blue jumpsuit and held in his hand the symbol of his office--a broad-headed, stiff-bristled broom--answered as he did every time to Roscoe's greeting: "I'm alive, Mister Liliburn."
"Not much to recommend it, is there?" continued Roscoe.
"No. Not much at all," replied Thaddeus.
At the bottom of the stair which led to his front door, he encountered the neighborhood street-sweeper, whom he greeted cordially: "Hello, how are you today, Thaddeus?"
The street-street sweeper, who wore a light blue jumpsuit and held in his hand the symbol of his office--a broad-headed, stiff-bristled broom--answered as he did every time to Roscoe's greeting: "I'm alive, Mister Liliburn."
"Not much to recommend it, is there?" continued Roscoe.
"No. Not much at all," replied Thaddeus.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Mirror-Ruminations
Harry stood in front of his bathroom's not-quite-full-length mirror. The reflection that confronted him was a naked man of late middle age. He ran his fingers through his hair. 'I look tired,' he thought, then added, 'I am tired.' He traced a finger across the lines of wrinkles radiating out from his eyes' corners. 'Old.'
Harry's gaze then went from his face, down his chest, to his protruding belly. Taken by a bit of whimsy, Harry grabbed his paunch in both hands, compressing and distorting it. He began to chuckle--'how absurd!'--but the sound of his laughter seemed crazy in the empty bathroom, and so he stopped, sobered. 'I was pretty fit, once... Running--I haven't done that in ages. Not since college, I think. Track and Field. I can hardly do a flight of steps without winding myself these days.'
Harry moved his gaze and attention below his paunch to his genitals, which were nestled in a wild bramble of black pubic hair. 'So odd they look. These dangly, comic bits of flesh. The silliest part of a man, I'd say, yet a part into which much of his ego is invested.' Harry examined his penis and testes a bit longer, turning--to achieve a better angle for viewing them-- this way and that, thinking, at last, 'They fit, though. I like them. Shows even God has a bit of a sense of humor. Nothing at all to be ashamed of here--just the body of a man,' thought Harry, taking in as much of himself as the mirror's borders allowed.
"Honey?" a female voice from another room called out.
"Yes?" said Harry.
"Come in here--I'm getting lonely," answered the voice seductively.
"Coming," said Harry, standing straight with pride as giddy as a peacock's. He walked from the bathroom, into a darkened room adjacent, shutting off the light on the way out.
___________
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: 'mirrors'. Henceforth, these posts shall appear on Thursdays and no more on Fridays--a change necessitated by incontrovertible data.
Harry's gaze then went from his face, down his chest, to his protruding belly. Taken by a bit of whimsy, Harry grabbed his paunch in both hands, compressing and distorting it. He began to chuckle--'how absurd!'--but the sound of his laughter seemed crazy in the empty bathroom, and so he stopped, sobered. 'I was pretty fit, once... Running--I haven't done that in ages. Not since college, I think. Track and Field. I can hardly do a flight of steps without winding myself these days.'
Harry moved his gaze and attention below his paunch to his genitals, which were nestled in a wild bramble of black pubic hair. 'So odd they look. These dangly, comic bits of flesh. The silliest part of a man, I'd say, yet a part into which much of his ego is invested.' Harry examined his penis and testes a bit longer, turning--to achieve a better angle for viewing them-- this way and that, thinking, at last, 'They fit, though. I like them. Shows even God has a bit of a sense of humor. Nothing at all to be ashamed of here--just the body of a man,' thought Harry, taking in as much of himself as the mirror's borders allowed.
"Honey?" a female voice from another room called out.
"Yes?" said Harry.
"Come in here--I'm getting lonely," answered the voice seductively.
"Coming," said Harry, standing straight with pride as giddy as a peacock's. He walked from the bathroom, into a darkened room adjacent, shutting off the light on the way out.
___________
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: 'mirrors'. Henceforth, these posts shall appear on Thursdays and no more on Fridays--a change necessitated by incontrovertible data.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Impinging Mythologies
Peter sat in a folding beach-chair facing the ocean. The setting sun shot the sky with virulent reds and oranges. Peter sipped mango-juice from an umbrella-embellished glass, and then set it upon the portable cooler next to his chair. He sighed, contented. The only sound that he could hear was the ocean--its steady rhythms like the breathing of some slumbering titan. As he watched--expecting nothing, hoping for nothing--the sun was swallowed by the horizon, and Peter began lightly to doze. The sun-warmed sands released their warmth into the night.
Peter came out of his dozing with a start some time later, experiencing the momentary fear which sometimes accompanies awakening in places to which one is unaccustomed. "I'm on the beach, on vacation," thought Peter, then added a mental laugh at his unwarranted twinge of fear. It was only then, litten by the flickering light of the stars, that he perceived the black silhouette which described a hulking giant of a man.
Now here was truly something unexpected, and Peter's system for self-preservation flooded his mind with blood and adrenaline, which caused him to stumble from his chair, tipping it over and, in the process, spilling his mango-juice, and then to run ,at a respectable clip, ten paces, whereupon he stumbled over a bit of tide-abandoned seaweed. He fell to the ground ungently, face first. From the sand, he scrambled up to his hands and knees, spitting out sand, and tasting blood. "Damn it!" he thought, "Bit my tongue." Still on all-fours, a huge, night-black hand invaded Peter's vision, inviting him to take it.
"Genhqh/tw fw~v! Genēthētō phōs!
At the speaking of these words, a strange light appeared from above, illuminating the scene.
Peter, staring at the now well-lit hand--expecting, perhaps, some harm from it--tried to comprehend the size of the man by this small part, and was defeated in this aim. He had to look up. And up again. The night had not exaggerated the size of the man that now stood before Peter, still proffering his hand. Had the man which Peter now comprehended been half so large, the appellation 'giant' would not have been at all ill-chosen.
"Hello," said the giant, a wide grin splitting his face.
"His mouth is big enough to fit my head in it!" thought Peter.
"Need a hand?" the giant asked, then added, "Sorry if I startled you."
Dumbstruck, Peter took the giant's hand, and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
The giant spoke again, "So, I saw you here and I thought I'd find out how you liked it." The giant looked expectantly at Peter.
"Well...I...um..." Peter searched his mind for something intelligible to say, but found the part of his mind that governed the production of, well, anything sensible, was not functioning.
After a few moments the giant prompted, "The ocean I mean. Nice bit of work, yes?"
"Well...yes..." said Peter eventually.
"Yeah, I thought you liked it. Peaceful on nights like this," the giant gazed wistfully toward the sea for a while, then, an embarrassed look appeared on his face and he said, "I'm sorry, did I introduce myself? Poseidon is the name--just Poseidon."
"Peter, Peter Froth."
It was then that Peter noticed the seaweed caught in the giant's--Poseidon's--hair, and the great trident he grasped in the hand he hadn't used to pull Peter up from the sand. Peter also noticed a vaguely fishy smell.
"The god?" asked Peter.
"Yep. That's me."
"Oh."
Poseidon looked again at the ocean, then looked at his feet, nervously digging a hole in the sand with the toe of his sneakers.
A bit awkwardly, when Peter had failed to say anything more, Poseidon said, "Well, I better get going--"
"--A pleasure meeting you," said Peter too hastily.
Peter could tell that Poseidon had hoped to chat for a bit, but the god obviously didn't know how initiate further conversation, and, truthfully, Peter would rather the god just leave, the reason being--though Peter would not admit it--that Peter was embarrassed by his frightened reaction to Poseidon's appearance.
And so, no more words passing between them, Poseidon walked into the night, the strange light he had produced following him down the beach.
Alone again in the night, his heart still beating a staccato tattoo against his ribs, Peter reflected on the strange experience that had just befallen him.
"He had no right," thought Peter angrily, " to disturb me on the beach that way! Damn it! I hate it when mythology impinges on reality!"
Peter came out of his dozing with a start some time later, experiencing the momentary fear which sometimes accompanies awakening in places to which one is unaccustomed. "I'm on the beach, on vacation," thought Peter, then added a mental laugh at his unwarranted twinge of fear. It was only then, litten by the flickering light of the stars, that he perceived the black silhouette which described a hulking giant of a man.
Now here was truly something unexpected, and Peter's system for self-preservation flooded his mind with blood and adrenaline, which caused him to stumble from his chair, tipping it over and, in the process, spilling his mango-juice, and then to run ,at a respectable clip, ten paces, whereupon he stumbled over a bit of tide-abandoned seaweed. He fell to the ground ungently, face first. From the sand, he scrambled up to his hands and knees, spitting out sand, and tasting blood. "Damn it!" he thought, "Bit my tongue." Still on all-fours, a huge, night-black hand invaded Peter's vision, inviting him to take it.
"Genhqh/tw fw~v! Genēthētō phōs!
At the speaking of these words, a strange light appeared from above, illuminating the scene.
Peter, staring at the now well-lit hand--expecting, perhaps, some harm from it--tried to comprehend the size of the man by this small part, and was defeated in this aim. He had to look up. And up again. The night had not exaggerated the size of the man that now stood before Peter, still proffering his hand. Had the man which Peter now comprehended been half so large, the appellation 'giant' would not have been at all ill-chosen.
"Hello," said the giant, a wide grin splitting his face.
"His mouth is big enough to fit my head in it!" thought Peter.
"Need a hand?" the giant asked, then added, "Sorry if I startled you."
Dumbstruck, Peter took the giant's hand, and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
The giant spoke again, "So, I saw you here and I thought I'd find out how you liked it." The giant looked expectantly at Peter.
"Well...I...um..." Peter searched his mind for something intelligible to say, but found the part of his mind that governed the production of, well, anything sensible, was not functioning.
After a few moments the giant prompted, "The ocean I mean. Nice bit of work, yes?"
"Well...yes..." said Peter eventually.
"Yeah, I thought you liked it. Peaceful on nights like this," the giant gazed wistfully toward the sea for a while, then, an embarrassed look appeared on his face and he said, "I'm sorry, did I introduce myself? Poseidon is the name--just Poseidon."
"Peter, Peter Froth."
It was then that Peter noticed the seaweed caught in the giant's--Poseidon's--hair, and the great trident he grasped in the hand he hadn't used to pull Peter up from the sand. Peter also noticed a vaguely fishy smell.
"The god?" asked Peter.
"Yep. That's me."
"Oh."
Poseidon looked again at the ocean, then looked at his feet, nervously digging a hole in the sand with the toe of his sneakers.
A bit awkwardly, when Peter had failed to say anything more, Poseidon said, "Well, I better get going--"
"--A pleasure meeting you," said Peter too hastily.
Peter could tell that Poseidon had hoped to chat for a bit, but the god obviously didn't know how initiate further conversation, and, truthfully, Peter would rather the god just leave, the reason being--though Peter would not admit it--that Peter was embarrassed by his frightened reaction to Poseidon's appearance.
And so, no more words passing between them, Poseidon walked into the night, the strange light he had produced following him down the beach.
Alone again in the night, his heart still beating a staccato tattoo against his ribs, Peter reflected on the strange experience that had just befallen him.
"He had no right," thought Peter angrily, " to disturb me on the beach that way! Damn it! I hate it when mythology impinges on reality!"
Monday, December 1, 2008
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