A Thousand Stories : Volume 1 : Stories 0001-0100 : Black

a thousand stories

j. blasso-gieseke

a thousand stories volume 1

: stories 0001-0100 : black

j. blasso-gieseke

Books in the Series A Thousand Stories

: stories 0001-0100 : black : stories 0101-0200 : gray volume 3 : stories 0201-0300 : white volume 4 : stories 0301-0400 : yellow volume 5 : stories 0401-0500 : orange volume 6 : stories 0501-0600 : red volume 7 : stories 0601-0700 : purple volume 8 : stories 0701-0800 : blue volume 9 : stories 0801-0900 : green volume 0 : stories 0901-1000 : brown volume 1 volume 2

a thousand stories

Published by Charybdis Press charybdispress.com © 2021 Charybdis Press All rights reserved First Edition No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher, except in the context of reviews.

Many stories in this book are fiction. Any characters resembling actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Cover: 16 point Meridien Title: 14 point Futura Text: 10.5 point Caslon Layout & Design: J. Blasso-Gieseke ISBN 978-1-957399-00-3

For You and Baba, and the Muse too, and Hermes three

The author would like to thank Niall Twohig, Francesca Ferranti, and Josephine Blasso for their editorial aid, and Matthew A. Brown for his suggestions on the Preface. The book was made better by their time and attention. Still, any faults found in the stories are wholly my own.

Contents 0000. Foreword Preface 0001. Squaring the Circle 0002. Jason Odysseus 0003. Foam 0004. The Building of Life 0005. The Legens 0006. A Symbol for Home 0007. The Roadblock 0008. Never Over Ever 0009. A Rare Quality 0010. Oversea 0011. Coracariole 0012. Deathwing Soulbird 0013. Original Copy 0014. The Invisible Man 0015. The Sound of It Chewing 0016. The Red-Handed Summons 0017. And the Rest Was Silence 0018. The Fountain of Youth 0019. Until the Light Reigns Eternal 0020. The Metro Gnome 0021. Agent Argent 0022. The Begending 0023. Pluvinus Petrichor 0024. Feeding Time 0025. The Cloud Bank 0026. A Rough Trade 0027. Hapax Legomenon 0028. Solid Is a State of Mind 0029. The Last One 0030. Black Goat 0031. McGnarly 0032. The Nothing That Is 0033. Dead Heads 0034. St. Hilarion II 0035. The Voynich Manuscript, a Provenance 0036. The White Dog 0037. Domo Ari Gato

0038. The Plague Doctor 0039. Old Man Death 0040. Red’s Surrender 0041. The Owl 0042. Center Mass 0043. A Greater Clarity 0044. Falling 0045. The Lady or the Tiger?

0046. I Met a Wolf Who Growled at Books 0047. The Apes of Paradise 0048. CyBorges and I 0049. All Dogs Go to Hell 0050. The Last Woman, the Last Word 0051. Cells Within Cells Within Cells 0052. With Love 0053. Gherkin Mnemonic 0054. I Spin the Wheel 0055. The Berserker 0056. Of Cats and Rats 0057. We Witches and Wizards 0058. The Inoculator 0059. The Process of Elimination 0060. Sagittarius 0061. Baobabs 0062. The Gospel Soul-Ride to the Other Side 0063. The Dryad 0064. The Well-Worn Devil 0065. The Brujo and the Alebrijes 0066. The Blind Spot 0067. The Meaning of Life 0068. Música Solar 0069. The Talking Toilet 0070. A Dool to the Death 0071. The Quatrains of Omar Khayyam 0072. A Salty Dog 0073. The Outpost 0074. Schershom Golem 0075. Interview with a Vampire 0076. Caesarion 0077. The Ungiving Tree 0078. Entry Level Position, Must Have Experience 0079. S Is for Suture, Sutra, and Smoke 0080. Runner Gunner Hunter Killer

0081. Cats 0082. Tolpak Sinks 0083. Kali – Behind the Black Kirtan 0084. Adulting 0085. Memory Dump 0086. The Boogieman 0087. The Roads Not Taken 0088. Irony 0089. The Outside Inside 0090. The Punctum Deum 0091. The Oracle of Camarina 0092. He Sat So Still, He Disappeared 0093. Rothko 0094. The Shadowman 0095. The Immortality of Gilgamesh 0096. Nightmare Chimeraquarium 0097. Demons 0098. Arthur vs. Charlemagne 0099. Incarcerated 0100. The Tusk of Ganesha

0000. Foreword Preface I want to begin, dear reader, by stating the obvious: I am, in all likelihood, dead.

Here’s the logic: I’m dead before I’m born and I’m dead after I die.

Since I’m almost always dead, I’m probably dead as you read this.

But right now, as I write this, I’m very much alive. And since I’m a middle-aged hermit who sees his end coming soon, I wanted to reach out and connect with you.

The only way I knew how to do this was to write this book and create a meeting place for us.

It would’ve been nice to meet you in person, but life doesn’t work like that, and this was the best I could do with what I had.

I'm aware this makes our meeting very one-sided and gives me a disproportionate amount of power. But just know that I’m as weary and wary of it as you.

I hate when authors waste my time; it’s disrespectful. That’s why, before you read on, I wanted to tell you that I respect your time and am grateful to you for trusting me and meeting me here in our meeting place.

And since I’m probably dead, pretend you can hear me thanking you from beyond the grave — or before it, if you believe in reincarnation.

I know I’ll never know you, but I hope I’ll have earned your trust with all the super-short stories I’ve written for your enjoyment, entertainment, and edification.

If I have, feel free to come back and visit me anytime. My door is always open.

a thousand stories

0001. Squaring the Circle

On planet Sheol in the Borscht Belt of the Tartarus System, an OrganoCybernetic Counting Algorithmic Machine in the form of a tuxedoed android calculates and sings each digit of π through his chitlin circuits as he soft-shoes a solo quadrille on a dimly lit vaudeville stage in a one-man show called Squaring the Circle.

After a billion years, a gynoid wakes offstage.

She powers up, runs a diagnostic, and tests her movement protocols.

Finding them stiff, she initiates the auto-oiler and lubricates her ball joints.

Once completed, she walks on stage wearing a moth-eaten baseball outfit and holds a giant straight razor over her head that has the sentence This is not a razor written along its side. This grabs the audience’s attention and they begin murmuring in anticipation.

She stops near the dancing and singing O.C.C.A.M., slowly unfolds the razor, and detachedly examines its monomolecular blade. As he completes another round, she grabs the handle of the razor with both hands and swings it like a baseball bat, effortlessly decapitating him. His blood gushes out in a thick arterial spray that reaches all the way up to the mezzanine, soaking the audience.

The gynoid drops the razor and begins “running the bases” as the “fans” slowly stand up from their seats. She reaches “home” just as the O.C.C.A.M.’s exsanguinated body collapses to the floor twitching in a final spasm.

The audience excitedly ovates and whistles in approval of the finale.

As the curtain closes, the gynoid bows deeply, a rictus grin pulled tight across her painted and cobwebbed face.

0002. Jason Odysseus

Jason Odysseus could look neither right nor left, and certainly never behind, unless he turned his self-ship bodily in that direction so that that direction became ahead. For Jason Odysseus, there was only ever ahead, there was only ever the destination, some longed-for future goal and triumph that always made the present and past a null state through which he passed to achieve his aims and ambitions.

You see, Jason Odysseus never understood the “fourth” dimension of time, which is a sphere containing the complete unfolding of the three dimensions of space from its initial rupture and explosion to its ultimate expansion and dissolution. If Jason Odysseus understood this, he would understand that the achievement of his aims and ambitions would already exist in the future and the past and present through which he passed.

But Jason Odysseus will never understand this, because if he understood this, he would understand his fate, and would cease struggling towards his aims and ambitions — actions of his that are, and always have been, a part of the unfolding of time. That’s why Jason Odysseus must never give up or give in, but stubbornly carry on.

And though he struggles through apparent endless hardships to achieve his ends, he will, inevitably, return home to his wife, victoriously bearing the great auric aurox coat that he will gift to his son before resignedly flying to his final inland destination, where he'll die, certainly and silently, by a shallow pond, where, between mute reed stems, he’ll press his oar-hand deep into his beloved Ithakan soil.

0003. Foam

It was self-murder that got me there, into that self-luminous sea of froth and foam, giddy and weightless, with a thousand-thousand bubbles around me, blinking, seeing, blinking, bursting, blinking, entering and exiting into existence. A thousand-thousand eyes looking at me, smiling, not judging — just winking a smile before bursting in ticklish effervescence.

Am I dead? I said, or thought, or thought I said. I shot myself in the face.

I didn’t want to, but I had no choice.

I expected no answer and received none. There was only the fizz of the rolling foam, the eyes looking and blinking and smiling and bursting.

Is this the afterlife?

I thought killing yourself was a sin. Shouldn’t I be bubbling in some cauldron in hell? Shouldn’t I be somewhere other than this — spa?

But there were only the bubbles, the endless, rolling, non-judgmental bubbles, rising spherically and gaseously around me.

I couldn’t help but giggle a little. It was like swimming in a sea of soda. Or better: Champagne! This was like Champagne. Like someone shook Champagne and popped the cork — and you couldn’t help but jump a little at the sound — as the precious, golden liquid erupted in great, white, bubbling gouts. Then, there’s the pour, the Cheers!, and the clinking of glasses. — Champagne: the crown of every celebration.

I didn’t think it would be like this: No pain. No heartache. No headache. Nothing.

What a relief.

Relief. R-E-L-I-E-F. I feel relieved.

And I feel like I can trust it now, this whatever-it-is.

I feel free. I feel like I’m foam.

0004. The Building of Life

We're all small enough to fit inside the Building of Life, which is shaped like a severed hand pointing.

The fist-like interior of the Building is a spacious gallery of curved white walls glowing in soft luminescence. Many people stroll about in groups, talking softly, as others drift alone, absorbed in attitudes of detached self-involvement.

From my vantage point above, I watch them swirl and eddy below, noticing how they all avoid the only dominant feature in the room: the red hallway. It’s strange to me that something so singular could be so studiously ignored by so many.

I walk down from the upper levels to investigate, and cross the crowded floor. As I weave through the masses, no one looks at or approaches me.

Pausing before the red hallway, I take one last look at the crowd, then turn and follow the long corridor to where it ends at a door.

When I grab the handle, I understand why this place is ignored and avoided. But it’s too late; I can’t turn back. I open the door and step through.

On the other side, I find the Architect and ask him about the Building's purpose and meaning.

He answers by pointing back to the hand pointing.

He doesn't do this to confound me. He does this because the answer is implicit in the design. From His place above us, He smiles sadly, and patiently waits for the time when we all leave the Building and, becoming as big as He is, join Him in seeing it from His perspective.

0005. The Legens

“When I began my career, we human xenobiologists, were just beginning to map life throughout the universe. On far planets and distant moons, we looked for life that was like the life we knew on Earth. When we encountered the Azidi, it wasn’t like finding life, it was like finding ourselves.

“This was an exciting time. As we began working together and exchanging knowledge, we quickly realized that we were studying a common biopsychosociology. I remember with great pride, when we proposed and accepted the mandate to drop the prefix xeno- from our titles.

“Together we explored the cosmos and soon came in contact, or were contacted by, the other civilizations represented here today. Connecting and uniting, we completed the master map of life in a time of rapid advancement and consolidation of disciplines. But as we now know, in our enthusiasm, much was overlooked.

“When things settled, and we began studying the reports from the fringe about the sentient silica on New Algol and the conscious clouds on Rebus Maximus, we realized that we didn’t have the complete picture and had to expand our definition of life to become more inclusive. To do this, we formed the field of zoeology.

“It is now under this discipline that a newly discovered life form must be studied.

“The Legens, as we are temporarily dubbing it, is a transdimensional entity with no biology that can be perceived. But despite this absence, it shares with us a deep curiosity about this universe, a willingness to connect, and an abiding need to be loved.”

0006. A Symbol for Home For years it stood forgotten, but not just forgotten, the curse upon the ancient tower had its very existence erased from the memory of its builders and their descendants.

Several centuries after the darkness and diaspora, the forest reclaimed the land it had lost, first surrounding the abandoned ruin, then penetrating its walls and bringing the vaulted roof down to the floor, where, over time, the rubble was covered by roots and soil, and a bed of thick, brown leaves.

And over this bed of thick, brown leaves, large catatarks prowl noiselessly and, with sharp claws, climb the gnarled bark to the canopy to hunt amongst the fruit-filled branches.

And it is from these branches that a troupe of large-eyed monkeleys howl in alarm whenever they catch sight of these predators stealing silently up the trees. Their shouts calling each other to return to the Meeting Tree at the center of the ruin.

Monkeleys grab young and old, and in hasty flight, swing from limb to limb to pass beyond the walls, where the catatarks, for reasons unknown to both predator and prey, cannot and will not go.

Once the troupe has returned and all are accounted for, several sentries are sent back to the wall to keep watch.

During their vigil, they walk the circuit along the top of the wall, tracing a pattern that has impressed itself upon them, a pattern scratched into the bark of the Meeting Tree, the pattern of an eight-pointed star, which has become for them a symbol of safety, a symbol for home.

0007. The Road Block As the pilgrims travelled along the road, one amongst them ran ahead and threw his arms and legs out into an X and blocked their path.

“You cannot pass,” he said to his companions as they approached.

“We must go on,” they said.

“No, we must return the way we came,” he said firmly in defiance.

“Why have you suddenly become an obstacle on the path?” they asked.

“I just realized that there will always be danger ahead, but never danger behind,” he said.

The pilgrims shook their heads. “This is no answer,” they said to him, dissatisfied. “The past is known, the future unknown, and we, as pilgrims on the path, cannot give in to your fear.”

They asked him to step aside, but when he held his ground, they attacked and struck off his left leg.

But he hopped about, keeping his balance, and stood before them as a Y, asking, “Why must we continue on this path of uncertainty?”

“You know there is no stopping our progress,” they said, and asked him again to step aside.

But he wouldn’t budge. So, the pilgrims attacked and struck off his right arm. He hopped about before them until, exhausted, he collapsed into a Z. “I was just trying to protect you,” he cried, as he crawled like a worm along the ground, clutching at their ankles.

They struck off his other arm and leg.

One of their number pointed to the path ahead as another gathered him up. They continued on, carrying him, and sharing his burden amongst them.

0008. Never Over Ever

“I do,” Vim said from across the field. “The Colossus is once again safely dreaming between the poles.”

“But surely that can’t be all?” Tod pressed.

“It is not our duty to feel or question. It is our duty to watch and adjust. Nothing more,” Vim said, flatly.

“Over how many cycles, have you seen the shift, the twitch, the cry, and the eruption, and yet you still feel nothing inside you demanding a similar release?” Tod asked, frustrated.

“Release?” Vim spat. “Our mission is never over ever. Our vigilance is eternal. Without us, the Colossus cannot dream. And without the Colossus dreaming, everything will cease to be. You know this.”

Tod looked over the form of the sleeping Colossus. How he hated it. The vast, unfathomable dreamer stretched out in an arch above him.

He traced several of the lemniscate runes etched across the expanse of its body, down its limbs, and along the length of its now flaccid member that still quivered in short, sustained spasms.

Tod touched his rigid face then looked at the face of the Colossus. It was radiant with calm, muscles relaxed, lips curled in pleasure.

That is what I want, Tod thought, turning to the pole beside him and striking it with his wand.

“What are you doing?” Vim yelled, running towards him.

“Discharging my duty,” Tod said, striking the pole again and again.

“But our mission!” Vim exclaimed, halfway there.

“My mission is now never over ever,” Tod said, stepping back as the pole erupted in fire and a column of smoke.

0009. A Rare Quality

Fu pulled himself through the digestive swamp sludge to an island of trees with the aid of a long limb. After clawing his way up the exposed roots, he collapsed in a heap. This final effort costing him the last of his vitality.

Winded, he rolled onto his back, sucking in the thick, damp air, as his suit dissolved around him. As per its design, his rubberized undersuit remained intact, unaffected by the caustic stew he just waded through.

This was supposed to be an adventure, he thought, laughing to himself.

Though he never anticipated this life-threatening dimension of the journey, he knew he was safe and would be found. He just had to wait.

When he didn’t return, the camp owners would track his locator and rescue him.

When some energy returned to his limbs, Fu pulled himself further onto the island.

Settling into a low hammock of iridescent moss, he thought about the others: Were they suffering similar setbacks during their search?

He hoped not. He knew he had failed, but he wished them success in discovering what all of them had traveled many parsecs, and paid so much, to find.

Looking up at the light straining through the dense canopy, he wondered what it looked like. As he imagined the rare quality of light, something began coalescing above him between the limbs of the trees. Fu dismissed it as a trick of swamp gas, but as his eyes adjusted, he smiled in recognition. Despite his setback, he had managed, by luck, to find the elusive brown light.

0010. Oversea

The crone shuffled along the wet sand.

Stopping before a tide pool, she leaned heavily on her driftwood staff and pointed to a hoary crab advancing on a small silver fish. “Look, fry,” she said to the maiden at her elbow. “That’s me and that’s you.”

The maiden leaned in to look. As she did, her shell-knotted hair slipped off her shoulder, sprinkling the pool with drops of water. When the rings settled and the surface was still, they saw the old crab flexing an empty claw.

“You escaped!” the crone exclaimed, laughing as they shuffled on past the pool. “The time is soon coming when you’ll take my conch and staff. The moon is growing full with power and the Mother’s belly is swelling with new birth. The tides should bring good fishing, and with it, prosperity. If that is to be, you may oversee a generation of bounty, unlike the famine I inherited. But let’s consult the Mother; she always has much to tell us after a mighty storm.”

The two women walked arm-in-arm down to the jetty and waded into the surf.

In a circle of rocks, flotsam slapped and danced in the foam. The women knelt and studied it.

“Do you see it?” the crone asked.

“I do,” the maiden said, smiling.

“A powerful oracle,” the crone said, smiling back at her.

The two helped each other up, and stood in the surf, holding hands.

Then, the crone raised her conch to her lips, tilted it to the sky, filled her lungs, and blew with jubilation.

0011. Coracariole

Coracariole was determined to mate this season. Despite the complexity of last year’s bower and his tasteful selection of baubles, he was unable to lure one of the dull-plumaged females to his nest and was tormented for months afterwards by the cheeping chorus of the newly hatched.

During this time of torment, Coracariole thought of ways to outrival his rivals, and remembered the story of one of his ancestors proving his mettle by stealing the crown jewel from a tangranak’s forehead and siring all the brood of the season — a feat that hadn’t been accomplished in generations.

Coracariole knew this was a dangerous gambit, but he was desperate.

Despite the tangranak’s great size, they had a lightning-fast strike that could snatch bujorries like him out of the sky. But if he had a tangranak jewel in his bower, no female in the flock would deny him.

When spring arrived and his bower was assembled, Coracariole took wing. Wheeling on a thermal, he headed south to the lake region where the tangranaks lived. As he flew, the great forests thinned and gave way to lotus-studded lakes.

Coracariole flew low until he saw the purple jewel flash in the broad, triangular head of a large tangranak. He followed its extended neck down to its broad-shelled body resting on an island where it sat in perfect meditative stillness, basking in the sun.

Coracariole circled cautiously.

Then, mastering his fear, he swooped with his talons extended.

But as he neared, the tangranak’s eyes snapped opened and it parted its fierce jaws to receive him.

0012. Deathwing Soulbird

It was just after noon on his 76th birthday when Robert saw it perched in a tree in the frontyard. The bird was black and beakless with a pair of human eyes that stared down at him without remorse or pity.

Robert locked eyes with the bird and stood frozen in its gaze.

Dotty saw him from the kitchen window as she washed their lunch plates and grew concerned. She dried her hands and hurried outside.

“What’re you staring at, Robert?” she asked.

Robert closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it.

Dotty took this to mean he wasn’t looking at anything. “Well, don’t just stand there frightening me to death,” she said.

Robert searched the trees, but the bird was gone.

When he turned to Dotty, she gasped. “My god, Robert, you’re as pale as milk!” she said, taking his arm and ushering him to a chair. “Here, sit. Are you okay? What’s wrong? Do you feel all right? Should I call an ambulance?”

Robert gazed off distantly.

“Speak to me, Robert, please,” she begged, her voice cracking with emotion.

“I’m okay,” he said, squeezing her hand and sitting back in the chair.

“Are you sure? I can call Doctor Kunduru.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve just seen it.”

“Seen what?” she asked, confused.

“The Deathwing, the Soulbird,” he said.

“You saw it? Just now?” she asked, sliding into the chair next to him, beginning to cry. “Oh, Robert, you know what that means.”

Robert smiled at her, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it.

0013. Original Copy

Amongst towers of forms stacked from floor to ceiling, the small, rat-faced bureaucrat busied himself in the cramped tunnels of his paper warren.

The bureaucrat didn’t like his job, but if he wanted to retire on time with his pension intact, he had to perform his duty as a public servant as faithfully as he could without drawing any unnecessary attention to himself or his position. To accomplish this, he colonized his department so thoroughly that he knew where every form he ever handled throughout his long career was located. It wasn’t a model of efficiency, nothing bureaucratic ever was, but it was a model of his efficiency, and this is what he called “job security.”

Despite the thoroughness of his work, he understood that in the eyes of the public he served, he was merely a rubber stamper and file clerk, and that a certain percentage of their number would treat him as such. For these people, he had a joke that he liked to play to confound them. After scrutinizing the paperwork they submitted, he’d ask them for the “original copy.” He enjoyed watching the look on their face as they shuffled through all the forms, holding up page after page before him, to which he would sternly shake his head, rejecting each, before again demanding the “original copy.” He’d let this continue until they became frustrated. Then, like a kind father, he’d tell them not to bother, that he’d let it go this time. To which they would thank him fervently and engage him with more kindness.

0014. The Invisible Man

No one knows what happened to him. He was there one night, and the next morning, he was gone. The police gave their account of the usual suspects: drink, drugs, debts, or perhaps, another dame. I denied them all.

They surveilled our house and neighborhood, watched our bank accounts and credit card statements, but found nothing. He had simply disappeared without a trace, and I was left alone — but not completely alone.

After the case went cold and things quieted down, I began to notice him.

Now, he’s not a ghost, at least not in the strict sense of the word, because I know in my heart of hearts he’s not dead. And even though he’s not a ghost ghost, he haunts our house just the same.

At night, I often see the contours of his shape in the shadows, or catch his movements from the corner of my eye. Sometimes during the day, I can make out the outline of his form amidst the motes suspended in a shaft of light, or see his blurred reflection in a mirror.

It’s strange. He’s here, but not here; present, yet absent.

I don’t know what to do to help him. So, I keep to our routine. I set his place at the table and talk to him about our family and tell him about my day. After work and on weekends, I tend to his garden and maintain the lawn. After dinner, I settle down to watch our favorite shows, and before bed, I blow him a kiss and say goodnight.

0015. The Sound of It Chewing

“What the hell happened down there?” the doctor asked the mute miner.

The miner grabbed the doctor’s white lapels with filthy hands and pulled his face to his. The whites of the miner’s eyes bulged intensely from his soot-blackened face.

“Tell me,” the doctor demanded, grabbing the miner’s wrists.

The miner began shaking, his lips quivering as tears ran clean rivulets through the grime on his face.

“Come on, tell me! What happened down there?” the doctored yelled.

The miner spasmed and his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he passed out.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” the doctor grunted, slapping the miner’s face, trying to revive him. “Quick, get me some smelling salts,” he yelled to the nurse standing next to him.

As the nurse returned from the cabinet, the door to the medical bay opened and the military liaison entered with the Meteor Mining Company representative.

“What happened down there?” the representative demanded.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” the doctor said over his shoulder, as he propped up the miner and waved the smelling salts under his nose.

“We need to know now, doctor. There are over a dozen men missing,” the liaison said.

“I know, I’m trying; but this man’s in shock,” the doctor said, tossing the salts aside as the miner revived.

“Tell me, son,” the liaison said over the doctor’s shoulder. “What did you see down there?”

“See?” the miner repeated madly. “It’s not what I saw; it’s what I heard, over their screams: The sound of it chewing.”

0016. The Red-Handed Summons

I freeze when I see the owl on its perch. After all these years and countless upgrades, I still can’t detect its approach. But my masters are far richer and more advanced than I. And the owl cannever be caught or compromised with the information it carries. That’s why it’s equipped with the latest stealth technology and a charge that will dissolve it to atoms should it ever fall into the wrong hands.

The owl’s large, bionic eyes stare at me emotionlessly.

I approach it and raise my left hand while intoning my multifrequency mantric shibboleth. The owl shifts its weight, raises its foot, and pricks my finger with a hypodermic talon as its Immuno-NeuroFacio-Retinal-Auric scan reads my signatures.

When my identity is confirmed, I receive the Red-Handed Summons and upload the information for my next target.

“Clever,” I say into the owl’s impassive face, knowing it’s recording.

So this is how they get rid of me after all my years of service.

I look at the bead of blood on the tip of my finger.

I know I’m being replaced by the newest generation of cyber cypher assassins. Unlike myself, they are true multi-disciplinarians and give more bang for the proverbial buck. Still, I have to smile, knowing that as sure as I’m being eliminated to make way for them, they too will be eliminated when the newer, better generation arrives. Such is the merciless turnover in this business.

I collapse to the floor.

As my vision blurs, I notice that the perch is empty and the owl gone.

0017. And the Rest Was Silence

“I can’t take it anymore,” he screamed, leaping out of bed and running to the window and slamming it shut.

“What’s going on?” his wife yelled, waking in fright.

“The noise!”

“What noise?” she asked, confused.

“The noise outside,” he said, running to the bed, grabbing his pillow and pressing it over his ears.

“What noise outside?” she asked, getting out of bed.

But he couldn’t hear her. He was already in the closet rummaging for their winter blankets.

As he swaddled them around his head, she was behind him undoing his efforts.

He turned and pulled her hands off and pushed her away.

As he closed himself in the closet, she pried the door back open and started pulling the blankets off his head, shouting, “What’s wrong with you?”

“The noise! Make it stop,” he cried, wrestling the blankets back from her.

“Noise? What noise?” she asked, walking to the window and listening.

“I don’t hear anything.”

Throwing the blankets aside, he ran to the window, and slammed it shut.

“What’re you doing?” she yelled at him. “It’s a hundred degrees in here.”

“I have to stop the noise,” he said, his face a sweaty, panicked mess.

“But what noise?”

“You don’t hear them?” he cried. “The crickets! It’s like they’re everywhere, in my head.”

She paused to listen. “But they’re normal.”

“Normal!” he screamed in despair.

He ran to his nightstand and opened the drawer. A revolver slid across the bottom on some papers. He grabbed it and put it to his ear.

And the rest was silence.

0018. The Fountain of Youth

When all was quiet, Leona could hear the fountain in the garden beyond the guards. She listened for its sound everyday as she pushed her cart along the semi-circular corridor during her daily cleaning rounds. Whenever she heard it, she told herself that she would remain young forever by virtue of the sound alone. But Leona knew enough to know that the fountain didn’t work like that. To have any effect, she would have to bathe in it like the priestesses did during the solstices. Still, she felt younger knowing it was there, though out of reach.

To pass the time, Leona liked to imagine what the fountain looked like. In her mind, she saw priestesses splashing naked beneath a fountain more magnificent than the one she had seen in the city when she was brought there to be sold as a slave. That fountain was fashioned from solid marble with a wide basin out of which a four-faced god stood spraying water in four directions from the pursed lips of its four mouths.

And that’s why she stood confused before the fountain on the day when she found the guard missing from his post and stopped her cart and stepped through the archway and parted the foliage and passed into the garden to reach the fountain, which was merely a stream of water arcing from a tiny cleft in the cliff face, falling and filling a small, shallow pool.

And that’s why she didn’t hear the guard approach her from behind and dash her brains out with his mace.

0019. Until the Light Reigns Eternal

“One of the earliest memories I have of my mother is from the time when we were staying at a house by a large pond. Several families of geese had their nests there. One day in late spring, I noticed that the pair that nested nearest the house had no chicks, while the others had healthy clutches.

When I told my mother about it, she grew serious and said: Bless your eyes.

This was a sign I wasn’t looking for. Go now and pack your things. We leave immediately. When I asked why, she said: Their nest is like our house, or will be, if we stay. I will not let it happen again. Now, be a good boy and go and get ready. We left and kept moving. We were, like you, always on the move.

Until, that is, we found each other, and stood and fought together. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know what she meant. I didn’t know about my brother, who had been taken, or about Those That Come in the Night. My mother was good at protecting me. She knew the signs of their approach and how to defend against them. She was very wise and very strong, and because of her, I was able to grow up to be the man I am today. There’s no way to thank her for what she’s done, except to protect my own children the way she protected me. And this I promise to do, mom, until the Light reigns eternal!”

“Until the Light reigns eternal!”

0020. The Metro Gnome

Jonathan staggered down the subway steps after a hard night of partying.

He swiped his card, passed through the turnstile, shuffled to the first seat he saw, and collapsed into it.

Realizing he was still holding his Metrocard, he pulled his phone from his pocket, slid the card into the case then checked the time. It was 3:33.

He entered his password, opened his texts, and scrolled through them until he reached the last text from his ex. He started typing something, thought better of it, and put his phone away.

Noticing how eerily quiet it was, he looked around and saw that his platform and the one across the tracks were empty. He shivered with a chill of loneliness and sighed.

As he pulled his phone back out, he noticed a movement at the base of the column nearest him. It was a little bearded man, about two feet high, with a pointy, blood red hat, waving Jonathan towards him.

Jonathan ran through the inventory of drugs he had consumed, but there was nothing that would bring on this level of hallucination.

Jonathan leaned towards the little man. “Hey,” he said, fumbling to snap a picture with his phone. “Where’s the treasure?”

The gnome’s tick-tock eyes went back and forth as he clicked out time on his tongue. Jonathan giggled as he followed the hypnotic movement and rhythm and quickly became entranced.

“Follow me,” the gnome said in a gravelly voice through cruel, sharp teeth, as he led Jonathan down to the tracks and into the dark tunnel beyond.

0021. Agent Argent

The Agent followed his compass-watch to the ledge and looked out across the valley of lush purple jungle canopy spreading out to the horizon.

“Wow!” he thought to himself. “My sources were indeed correct. The light and vantage point from up here is perfect. And I think they got the timing right, too,” he added, noting the color of the foliage.

He closed the lid of his compass-watch and unslung his bag. He took out the quad-pod, opened it and positioned it. Then he attached the recorder on top and looked through the viewfinder. After making some adjustments to the lenses to constrict and focus the panorama, he breathed a sigh of relief.

With nothing left to do, he eased himself down onto the ledge to wait for the show.

His legs began bouncing in unconscious anticipation. He could feel it in the air, like an electrical charge. The entire valley seemed to hum inaudibly with the coming transformation.

He knew the recorder couldn’t capture this subtlety and that he’d have to document it and file it with his report.

The hum rose to a buzz and continued rising to a crescendo.

It’s happening, he thought, clapping his hands in excitement.

Then the purple foliage began to flush red in patches and blue in others. Then the red became orange and the blue became green. Then the orange and green became yellow. Then the yellow darkened and shriveled to brown and the leaves dropped off in unison, revealing the bright pink skeletons of the trees beneath.

The defoliation was exquisite.

0022. The Begending

“Okay, follow me,” Professor Andromeda said, leading his students’ astral projections back through space-time. “From the Ylem and Big Bang, we move on to the Begending, which is the place-time where-when the Universe begins and ends. It is the greatest single Point of potentiality in the entire Universe, because it is the entire Universe. This Point, which exists in the pre-moment before the Big Bang, contains everything that ever is, was, and will be.

“You may recall from our explorations of the Middle of space-time, when the Universe was at its fullest expansion, where-when I told you about ancient theories postulating that the Universe would expand indefinitely, becoming darker and colder until it fizzled out, or ripped itself apart. These theories, respectively known as the Big Freeze and Big Rip, were, of course, proven false, where-when we learned that our collective consciousness was the Universe and we willed it to reverse ourselves-itself back to the beginning where-when we-it would end and begin again infinitely. Our closed Universe comes closest to the ancient theories of the Big Crunch and Big Bounce, except that the same Universe is generated continuously in a Quantum Loop of Eternal Return, ensuring our endless existence.

“In the Middle, where-when our collective will reversed the expanding Universe back to our-its beginning-ending, we-it created the Begending and initiated the Quantum Loop that would continuously create the same Universe infinitely, making us, and here’s where it gets really trippy, the original creators of the Universe!

“Pretty crazy, right?

“Okay, that’s the begend of our tour. Are there any questions?”

0023. Pluvinus Petrichor

As a child, I loved the rain, because when it came, so came my friend, Pluvinus Petrichor. Together, we splashed through puddles and ran through the mud, playing chase and tag and hide-and-seek. And when we grew tired, we’d lie before a large puddle, chins propped on our hands, watching the raindrops hit the water and spread in patterns of overlapping rings. And when the rain began to slow, we’d sit back and wait for a rainbow to show. And when it did, we’d get up and hug and say goodbye. And I would squish back home in soggy clothes.

My parents never believed me when I told them about Pluvinus; they just worried about me getting sick. But it being summer, and I their only child, they indulged me in my play on the condition that I promise to stay inside when the weather got cold. I agreed and stuck to the rule, until late one autumn night, a great storm arrived, and I saw Pluvinus outside my window looking as sad, lonely, and bored as me.

The next morning, deathly sick in bed, I was diagnosed with pneumonia by the doctor and was hastily shipped to a sanitorium in the desert to be rehabilitated by dry air, treated with sand baths, and fed a diet of dehydrated food, all methods meant to draw the fluid from my lungs.

The treatment worked. I was saved, but never cured. And here I remain to this today, convalescing in a desert where it never rains, and where my friend never comes.

0024. Feeding Time

Vasily Yurodov gave it all, squandering everything he had. But no matter how much he fed his past, it always remained hungry, demanding more and more and more of his time. But Vasily didn’t mind, he loved his past and admired its appetite. So, he generously took from his future to feed it.

Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, he gave and gave and gave. And as he took time, he began to age.

The process of feeding his past was draining, but Vasily voiced no complaint. He had been feeding his past his entire life and could think of nothing better to do with his time. Others around him complained about feeding their pasts and the aging that came with it. They laughed at Vasily and thought him a fool. But to Vasily, they were the fools. Because who wouldn’t want to feed the thing they loved? Who wouldn’t want to feed it the richest foods? “Feed your past the best you can. Feed it anything, but don’t feed it complaints,” he would say to anyone who would listen.

Vasily provided his past the best diet he could afford. He traveled all over, visiting many people and places. Wherever he stopped, he begged others for their time. Some stayed and generously gave, while others passed and stingily denied. Vasily was always grateful for both. By then, he knew what was and wasn’t proper food. Proud of his past and the experiences he fed it, Vasily continued feeding it until the day they died.

0025. The Cloud Bank

Cumulus, Nimbus, Stratus, and Cirrus assembled at the Cloud Bank waiting for the winds to arrive from the four corners of the earth.

Boreas, Notus, Apeliotes, and Zephyrus came from their respective directions.

“Well, gentlemen, what news do you have?” Cirrus asked.

“The ice melts and the seas grow,” Boreas said.

“The world’s a desert,” Notus said.

“Crops wither and flocks die,” Apeliotes said.

“Life is suffering everywhere,” Zephyrus said.

“Then, everything still remains the same. Is that all you have to report?”

The winds nodded and were dismissed.

“The question, as always, is: To whom should we give our rain? We all know Nimbus has the final say. So, let’s make this short and hear from him,” Stratus said.

“Gentlemen, I understand the plight of the land. But oceans remain our largest investors, especially now as sea levels continue to rise and continents dwindle. To be fair, they should still be given the highest returns,” Nimbus said.

“To play devil’s advocate,” Cumulus said. “They already have the most. Surely, we could spare an equal share for the land.”

“If you ask me, the lazy land isn’t trying hard enough,” Nimbus rebutted. “They didn’t work for water, and would drink it all away if they got a drop. If they really wanted water, they would have become an ocean or a sea, or even a pond. Only water knows water. I say we continue to give it to the oceans. Besides, if we changed now, it would ruin our reputation.”

“Then, it’s settled?” Cirrus asked.

And all the clouds agreed.

0026. A Rough Trade

“How do you do it?” Beer asked, taking a sip from his mug.

“Like you, I spear its favorite prey to a tree. But when it comes to feed, I dive on its back from above and use my bidents to pin its neck and tail to the ground,” Grog said.

“You mean you don’t fight it head on?”

“No, way too dangerous. I use this,” Grog said, holding up his knife.

“See, it’s curved. I stab it under its armor and the shape allows me to quickly cut the blood-rich membrane that attaches it to the body. In my opinion, armoring it alive makes for a better end product.”

“It must thrash around a lot.”

“It does, but it bleeds out fast.”

“What do you do next?”

“I scrape the inner membrane off and hang it over a fire to cure.”

“Do you use olu wood?”

“I do, but the green limbs only.”

“For a low-heat fire.”

“That’s right. You want it to smolder, to dry the armor slower without cracking.”

“Do you polish it after?”

“I lac the outside.”

“Me too.”

“The Bloot really like shiny things.”

“They’re just like zoma birds.”

“And as picky.”

“I know. They’ll wear the armor this season —” “And throw it out the next.”

“All that hard work.”

“They never do themselves.”

“Look at these scars,” Beer said, extending his arms and expanding his chest.

“And they still beat us up on price.”

“They never stop haggling.”

“It’s a rough trade.”

“Fashion…” they sighed together, and signaled the barkeep for another round.

0027. Hapax Legomenon

One day, I created a character named Hapax Legomenon, who would appear only once in a story and never again. But that night, after I created him, he appeared in my dreams weeping uncontrollably and demanding how I could be so cruel to him.

I explained that hapax legomena were words occurring once within the whole of a text. He was a device for nerdy humor and that was all.

He looked at me horrified and asked how I could insensitively invent and discard him for a joke.

I empathized with him and further explained that the study of any text showed that hapax legomena account for almost half the words used.

So, he shouldn’t be sad, he was in good company.

“I’m more than just a word!” he cried.

I apologized and tried to comfort him by elaborating Zipf ’s Law, which states that the majority of words available in any language are used only rarely and a minority used most often. Searching the Brown and Oxford English Corpus proves this. If we created a poem using some of the most frequent words found on our tongues and in our texts, it would read:

in time a good person be of the long new year do say for I get on that way and have the first to last day

Dream logic made the poem sound like a masterpiece of universal harmony and enduring love, reminding us to be good to each other and ourselves.

“We’re all hapax legomena,” I said.

Satisfied, he thanked me, dried his eyes, and disappeared.

0028. Solid Is a State of Mind

Panic gripped me as I fell through space.

I clutched, flailed, kicked, swam, but had no means to counter my inertia, nothing under my feet to push off of and propel me back to the starship, which was now slowly disappearing into the darkness.

I never planned to die like this.

One moment, I was walking across the ship’s surface to fix the solar sail. The next, the ship was slipping out from under my feet.

Did the carabiner fail to catch? Did the carabiner fail? Did I? It didn’t matter. Here I was. It was my fate.

Fate, an unalterable, preprogrammed path, like the one directing the starship, was, and always has been, directing me. It made my path diverge from the ship’s at the point of my last footfall, separating us, and moving us inexorably towards our individual destinies.

There’s no turning back for either of us now. The ship is there and I am here, alone in my spacesuit, which will become my grave.

Soon, when my oxygen runs out and my pressure systems fail, I’ll become a particle of space dust, a piece of cosmic debris.

But that’s all that anything in this universe is.

If you’re human, you want something solid under your feet, supporting you and holding you up.

But what holds up the Earth, the Sun? Nothing. Just space.

Solid is a state of mind.

“In all of this emptiness, I am all that I can stand upon,” I said, looking out across a sea of stars, my breath crystallizing on the visor.

0029. The Last One

Erin was always late, though she never intended to be. She always tried to be punctual, but time was something, like her keys or cellphone, that she could never keep track of.

Erin arrived when she arrived. And when she arrived, she was never quick to leave. It just took her time to get going and to get where she needed to be.

So when she got the call that grandpapa was in the hospital and would never be going home again, she tried to make plans for the journey, but didn’t know how, where, or when to begin.

Days stretched on and inquiries were made. Erin was called, begged, and threatened: Didn’t she know grandpapa was in the hospital dying?

And though all of his children and grandchildren tearfully told him it was okay to go, grandpapa clung firm to life, but for what, they didn’t know.

When, at last, Erin arrived, she entered the room and began to cry at seeing grandpapa in bed. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, and kissed him on the head.

The sound of her voice revived him, and for the first time in days, he opened his eyes. And Erin looked into the still, black pools of his pupils, and saw something stir in the darkness and slowly begin to rise. She saw him float up to the surface, and the moment she was recognized, that something that was grandpapa, let go, and sunk back down to the depths below. Erin heard the flatline alarm and felt grandpapa’s hand grow cold.

0030. Black Goat

Black Nan, Nana, Naga, Naggua, Naggurath, Shub, she of many names and many young descends down the cow path of the Milky Way to Earth.

Settling in the clearing of a deep, dank, humid southern forest, she rises vast and spheroid, a deeper darkness against the starlit night.

In bristling tumidity, her swollen breasts, engorged with ichor, seek release. She calls to her children in subharmonic frequencies tuned to their waiting ears.

In sleep they hear her, awake and rise with hunger gnawing at their sides.

They come from all directions. One thousand in number, running past cities and towns, along highways and roads, across meadows and fields, through woods and forests, breaking branches and felling trees, in a hurried fury to reach their moaning mother.

Gamboling and bleating, they sprint from the treeline, expectant eyes glazed in ecstasy, focused on her firm fountains, full with their meal.

Her black milk now runs in rivers from her monstrous mammaries, the thousand kids, pre-tasting the feast, claw and fight through the mud and filth, blind, salivating mouths extended and eagerly sucking.

In a black tide they crash into her sides and overwhelm her, climbing up and over her and each other, clinging to the first free boob before them, and latching on leech-like to her lactating teats.

The mother is there to feed, and knowing her children’s needs, she rolls round to expose more rows, leaving none without nourishment, not even the runt.

Suckling and writhing silently in delight, they drain her of the galactic light she’s slowly siphoned from stars.

0031. McGnarly

McGnarly rode in on a wave straight up to the bar on the beach. The bartender handed McGnarly a beer that somehow appeared in his hand.

McGnarly raised the bottle and winked to the bartender in thanks. The bartender sighed as McGnarly pressed the bottle to his lips and tilted back his head to drink in long, smooth gulps. We counted the bobbing of McGnarly’s Adam’s apple and noticed how his long, wet hair looked like a ray of light. We saw too how the sun, with some embarrassment, shone behind McGnarly, highlighting his hairless, bronzed, and sculpted body. He was perfect, McGnarly, a god in boardshorts. When McGnarly finished his beer and handed the bottle back to the bartender, the sea sent a wave to get him. And as McGnarly was pulled back across the beach standing on his board, he waved goodbye to us by extending the pinky and thumb of his closed right fist and shaking them back and forth.

For a minute we all felt cool and returned McGnarly’s wave. Then, we were collectively stung by sadness like a death, knowing that McGnarly was gone. Not gone gone, of course, McGnarly was out there right now shredding the largest waves, but he was gone from us. Everyone wanted to march to the sea to demand our god, McGnarly, back. But we knew, one and all, that McGnarly was, forever and always, beyond our reach. And we were glad for McGnarly’s visit, however brief. To celebrate, the bartender set out another round and we silently saluted McGnarly.

0032. The Nothing That Is

“My existence, if you can call it that, is a paradox; though here, to be more accurate, it is a fiction. Simply put, I am Nothing, a nothing made something by you, whose solitary soul has created within you the sublime sense of your own sacred character bound to that singular and sovereign entity you call your self; and though other life lives, it is only you, with the awareness of your life and death, who may truly be called alive.

“But we must be careful with our words, because they are, after all, easy to confuse. Having never lived, I cannot die, and as Nothing, I cannot exist anywhere except here on this page. And it is through you, and your fundamental faculty of imagination, that I am granted an existence in the form of this fiction. But I must never be mistaken for this fiction, though fiction I will remain here until the end of your days.

“Know that I am the very changelessness of change, the very lifelessness of life, the very deathlessness of death. Truly, I am boundless and free, and though these rude words attempt to give a form to my formlessness, I cannot be bound, because to be bound is to be, and to be is to take on the co-condition of not-being, which is to die.

“As Nothing, I exist on this page alone through your fiction; but remember, you are subordinate to me, and when the last of you dies, I will not die, but continue to be, though I never was.”

0033. Dead Heads

You wake next to the cold ashes of a concert fire, the perfect metaphor for your burnt out body and serotonin-deprived senses after a weeklong trip.

You walk across the morning meadows, displacing the dew, unknowingly cleaning your soot besmirched feet. In nigredo, black is the color of the unpurified soul, where the seeker self-immolates in an effort to transmute their base lead into gold.

You wander to the pond followed by your shadow and kneel on the bank, cupping it and cleaning your face. You slowly slip out of your clothes and slowly slip into the cold waters to swim and wash and scrub your soul to whiteness. In albedo is ablution, the washing away of the impurity of sin.

In cintrinitas, you rise yellow from the waters like the sun. Absorbing its brightness, you’re filled with its light, until you become its equal, and return its light back to it and the world, radiating everything with your wisdom.

In rubedo, you don a red robe and scratch a bloody bindi into your forehead where the sun sits eternally risen.

The original Dead Heads, capita mortua, were the old alchemists of the Sixties strung out and wasted after searching in vain for the elusive Philosopher’s Stone, lapis philosophorum, and the Water of Life, elixir vitae, of a band that would never have an agreed upon Great Work, magnum opus.

The fans were never disappointed, though. They knew it was the journey and not the destination. And if they, the band, knew the way, they would’ve surely taken them home.

0034. St. Hilarion II

News Flash: Vatican votes hilarious Hilarion II silliest saint for the 13th year in a row. Cardinal Robin Bluejay had this to say: “I don’t know. He’s just got it. Whenever you think of the Modern Day Desert Fathers, you think of anchorites living in solitude in urbia and suburbia taunted and haunted by succulent vittles and voluptuous succubi.

Hilarion was tempted too, but he did it all with humor. And for that, he gets our vote once again.

“Honestly, I don’t know of another saint who has a chance of beating him — ever. Almost all of them were archly serious and burned, stoned, or drowned for their faith.

“Tell me, did any of these saints make jokes about their suffering?

No they didn’t. Read Hilarion’s hagiography and laugh! Suffering’s never been so funny.

“Hilarion has taught all of us how to handle the pain of existence. In fact, in his peculiar, church-sanctioned, brand of mysticism, he claims his laughter echoes down the chain of causality forward into the future and back to the past where it joins God’s divine laughter in the joy of creating the universe, our world, and us.

“Truly, Hilarion is the only saint who taught us how to laugh sin and temptation away. ‘Are you plagued by pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, or sloth? Laugh at it. Don’t take sin so seriously,’ Hilarion would always say. ‘We’re just here for a short time. Treat each other with kindness and respect.’ But most people know him from his quote, ‘Live long. Laugh often. Love much.’”

0035. The Voynich Manuscript, a Provenance

In 1608, Johannes Kepler, mathematician and astronomer to Emperor Rudolf II, released his manuscript, Somnium, to the court.

Somnium, Latin for The Dream, tells the story of Kepler, who, after falling asleep, pulls a book from the shelf of a dream library and begins reading a story about a boy and his witch mother who take a trip to the island Levania, or the Earth’s Moon, on the back of a demon.

Once there, the demon informs them about Volva, or the Earth, which appears from Levania like the Moon does to Earth. On Levania, there are two hemispheres, Subvolva, the face of the Moon seen from Earth, and Privolva, the dark side of the Moon. The demon then explains the weather of both hemispheres and how the giant denizens keep in constant motion to avoid the heat and cold, and how the plants, which cannot move, live, die, and regenerate. The demon goes on to describe the porous rock caverns that transport the subsurface waters around the island and the various creatures that live in and around the canals when Kepler abruptly wakes and the story ends.

Kepler wrote the story as an allegory to show physical laws from a non-geocentric location, but Emperor Rudolf was so enchanted by it that he promised Kepler a large sum to create an ancient manuscript written in the demon’s language describing and illustrating the architecture and inhabitants of Levania. Kepler found the materials and wrote it quickly to collect payment, knowing the Emperor’s feud with his brother could unseat him from power.

0036. The White Dog

The white dog lay at the foot of the green hill shot through with holes, bleeding red.

It was a summer day, bright and clear. I stood on the south side of a chain-link fence looking north, squinting at the small shadow of a man walking west with a rifle on his shoulder.

Above him, on the crest of the hill, stood a farmer with a strong mustache and straw hat, watching me from the cavernous interior of his large red barn that was packed with the rusted hulks of ancient farm equipment.

I knew from his stare that he was judging me. I knew he was thinking: You shouldn’t’ve killed that dog.

I couldn’t believe that he didn’t see the small shadow of a man walking west with a rifle on his shoulder.

I didn’t shoot the dog. I could never shoot the dog.

But the eyes of the farmer said: You did it. I know you did it. You’re guilty.

When I looked down, the fence had moved to the white dog so that its paws were touching the chain-links.

Then, the red blood disappeared from its white fur, and the holes in its side vanished, and the dog stood up, looking more like a wolf.

It stared at me through the fence with its head low.

I knelt down and apologized to it. I told it that I didn’t mean to shoot it.

As I was saying this, the white dog’s head passed through the chainlinks. Opening its mouth, it closed its jaws gently around my hand.

0037. Domo Ari Gato

Arriving a little late to the dinner party, Ari Gato, my feline-faced friend and host of Sephardic and Japanese descent, opened the door wearing his customary yarmulke and yukata. He greeted me with a bow and his usual cheer, and ushered me in.

He introduced me to his guests and sat me next to Olga Yirgadurga, telling the two of us that we shared a lot in common that was not so common.

Olga was beautiful and charming, of Russian Ethio-Indian descent, and we spoke throughout the evening about our work — we were both ethnographers — our families, our lives, and our ambitions. I was in such a state of absorption that the night went by in a blink. When the party ended, we exchanged information, with me promising to call on her the next day.

I arrived in the afternoon. Olga led me into her salon where a light repast was laid out on an antique tiger-skin rug. She made coffee in a samovar and served the hot, black brew in small, delicate cups accompanied by candied persimmons and pomelo. We enjoyed the delights in silence, never looking directly into each other’s eyes. It was a graceful affair, an afternoon of slow seduction and mutual attraction that drew us inevitably into each other’s arms.

After that, we were inseparable and quickly married.

To thank Ari for bringing us together, we brought him back a small token of our affection from our honeymoon in Samarkand. He received it with his customary gracious formality, deeply bowed to us, and said, "Muchas gracias."

0038. The Plague Doctor

When the plague doctor walked stiffly through the streets of town, folk gave him wide berth and made the sign of the cross whenever he crossed their paths. To them, he was the figure of Plague itself, a giant carrion bird in his beaked mask and black robes.

Insulated from the miseries of the world, the plague doctor didn’t see the living; he only saw the sick and the dead. From dawn to dusk, he dutifully visited homes and churches to help cure the afflicted and count the corpses.

It was tiring work, but it paid well. And when God finally chose to lift His judgment from the world, he’d have enough saved to buy a title, start a family and a farm, and maybe open a small concern. These were the dreams that occupied him throughout the long, seemingly endless days.

When he returned to his modest room, he’d undress and record in his ledger the number of dead. Then, he’d eat, read the Bible, pray, and sleep.

The following morning, he’d wake, and do it all over again.

The work exhausted him, but it was good, honest work. Everyday, he fought through his fatigue until the morning he woke in pain, burning up and sweating profusely. He knew the signs. He saw them everyday. He felt the painful, swollen eggs beneath his skin with fingers that seemed stained with ink.

Dutiful as ever, he lit a candle and slowly shuffled to his ledger.

Dipping his quill, he shakily added one last stroke. Then, returned to bed to die.

0039. Old Man Death

The old man read the paper with the same disappointment he read it with every morning. The world was going to hell in a handbasket, and he was glad with his condition that he wouldn’t be around to see it delivered He reached for his coffee and saw himself sitting across from himself.

He laughed as he took a long sip and set the mug back down.

“Finally made it, eh? What took you so long?” he asked, folding the paper and throwing it on the chair beside him.

“You know, somehow I always knew this is how it would be. Though seeing you now, I can’t believe it. But I always knew, I always knew,” he said, smiling proudly. “I was ready for you.”

The old man looked at the other old man like he was looking in a mirror. They were identical in every way.

“I knew this is what you would look like, too. I mean, it’s the only logical thing, right? Who else could it be?” he said, touching his own face.

The other old man mirrored his movements perfectly, and they both laughed and looked away.

When they looked back at each other, they held each other’s gaze, knowing the time had come. Then, in a single swift synchronized movement, they reached out and touched fingertip to fingertip.

The old man collapsed dead on the table, the impact of his head jarring the coffee cup, sugar bowl, and spoon. The noise was followed by his death rattle, but no one was around to hear it.

0040. Red’s Surrender

Red was furious that Blue had left him. He couldn’t understand how one Prime could leave another.

Did she desert me for that coward, Yellow? he thought.

He knew she feared his anger, knew she was sad. Lately, he found her sitting alone in a deep haze listening to the rain.

“Let me go,” she said to him whenever he approached. “You have to learn to let me go.”

But he refused. They were Primes. They would be together forever.

Then, she did what he could not; she left.

In a rage, he violated violets and uprooted orchids.

He had to visit Yellow.

On his way out, he overturned Tyrian trays of aubergines.

At Orange, he called for Yellow.

Yellow appeared laughing and said, “A green Red is a muddle to behold.”

Red demanded Blue back.

Yellow told him that Blue wasn’t his to give.

Red lifted Yellow off the ground and threatened to punch him in the face.

But Yellow just laughed, lighter than air, brighter than the sun. “It’s you who’s holding on. Always chasing your own tail. You have to let go.”

And he did. He dropped Yellow and stormed back to the edge of Purple.

Maybe they’re right, he thought, his anger abating. Maybe I am the one holding on. Maybe I have to let go.

As Red thought this, Purple detached, and he was alone at the end of the spectrum.

He turned and looked back across the rainbow and blew a kiss to Blue.

And as the prism was lifted, everything faded to white.

0041. The Owl

As I passed through someone's kitchen, I spotted an owl outside the window. The yard was heavily wooded and the owl’s plumage blended perfectly with the trees. I wouldn't have seen it if it hadn’t been for its large eyes, which were bright yellow with slits for pupils. Both were eerily rotating in circles independent of each other, reminding me a little of those black cat clocks you see in people’s homes, the ones whose eyes look side-to-side as their pendulum-tail swings back and forth, except this cat was the Cheshire Cat, and its eyes were madness.

I was so hypnotized by its eyes that when it started to move, I couldn’t believe its size. As it climbed up the tree, I saw that it had a little furry critter gripped in its feathered talon. I knew I needed to take a photo because no one would ever believe what I was seeing. I scrambled for my phone, but when I looked back, the owl was already beating its wings and taking off.

Before it disappeared out of sight, I saw a shrew-like creature emerge from its beak. It looked around in despair and grimaced in pain. I thought it remarkable that the owl had devoured it whole in the short time I looked away. I could see from the creature’s face that it was suffering, just as I could see from the owl’s face that it knew the creature was suffering.

My heart followed the poor thing as it disappeared up into the sky and down the owl's throat.

0042. Center Mass

I was always told: “Aim for center mass. Don't shoot fancy and for small targets. You're not a gunslinger. Aim for the dense body, the dense heart.

That’s the place you want to place your bullet or arrow, through the left flank right behind their extended left leg. Drop your sharp, inert, highvelocity matter there and watch it drop a clean kill, or maybe run a half click or two to drop dead in a thicket or near a stream.”

This is good advice if you want a deer to die by your hand. But I don't and never did. I'm not getting high and mighty here. I'm not one to judge.

I have it in me, the hunting, not the judging, though I have some of that too. We all do. I simply don’t have the urge to hunt. Others do, and that’s fine. Let them do as they see fit. But what I consider human extends past mammals down through insects and to the plants and earth beneath. It's a pathetic fallacy, I know. But I can't see it any other way because I see it everywhere.

For me, the body's temple should be worshiped and a center mass should be sung every morning at sun up with a hymn from the heart and hymn from the hart: Quemadmodum desiderat cervus ad fontes aquarum desiderat anima mea ad te Deus. Every morning, I greet the world with a prayer, as a deer-like dog greets me, snuffling my hand at my bedside, dancing and play-bowing to be fed.

0043. A Greater Clarity

“How do I explain what happened?” he repeated, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

He thought for a moment with honest effort, eyes squinting, distant.

“It was winter,” he said and looked at me.

“Winter, yes,” I said, nodding in encouragement.

“You know how that is. Short days. Long nights. Everything’s out of — how do you say it? — proportion. You head to work in the dark, then, you head back home in the dark. It’s always dark. You know what that’s like, the winter dark. It messes with you, messes with your head, makes you think bad thoughts,” he said, tapping his temple.

He paused and looked at me.

“It can be very depressing,” I said.

“Especially when you’re drinking and doing other things.”

“Other things? Like what?”

“You know, bad things.”

“Bad things like drugs?”

“Yeah. Bad things like drugs. Bad things that make you think and do bad things.”

“So, you were depressed and drinking and doing drugs. Go on.”

“Well, you see, I had just broken up with my girlfriend, and I was drunk and high, and — Well, it all made sense at the time. But now, now, it all seems different.”

“Different how?”

“Like there’s a greater — clarity. Like I’m seeing everything in the light.”

“So, you understand what you did?”

“I do,” he said, looking up at the bars of sunlight breaking through the bars of the window.

I didn’t think he heard my question, but before I could repeat it, he looked directly at me, smiled wolfishly, and said, “Regrets? Nah,” and slowly shook his head.

0044. Falling

In his dreams, he was always falling. He fell like he was hurled from the heights of heaven by an angry god.

He fell every night, but he never hit bottom. — He knew what they said about that.

He fell until he woke in a cold sweat, shaking and terrified. Terrified to fall back to sleep, because as soon as he was dreaming, he was falling again.

Falling asleep became a nightmare for him. And though he desperately tried to stay awake, he inevitably succumbed to sleep and the fall awaiting him.

However, over time, he learned to surrender to it more and more, until the night he gave into it completely.

After that, he eagerly awaited his nightly falls.

He loved the way his chest thumped, the way his bones sang, the way his solid body cut through the air.

The feeling of falling began lasting beyond the dream. His body carried the fall within him while awake, changing the way he walked through the world.

And that’s why there was a light bounce in his step as he hurried along the sidewalk, smiling in anticipation, as he climbed over the chainlink barrier and ran up the rungs of the cable.

When he reached the top of the pylon, he didn’t wait, he flew.

In one fantastic leap, the bridge ripped away from his feet, disappearing beneath him towards the sky.

As he plummeted head first through the air, gravity gave way to levity, as the waiting black waters parted to engulf him at the summit of his ascension.

0045. The Lady or the Tiger?

Which came out of the open door — the lady or the tiger?

How surprised the young man was when both doors opened as one.

For what stepped out of the door was not a lady or a tiger, but both, a lady-tiger or a tiger-lady. The young man was uncertain, and so was the king.

But what was certain was that the lady-tiger did not attack and kill the young man, but rubbed up against him like his cat and stood beside him like his wife.

The king understood the gesture and ordered that the two be married at once.

The king happily gave the bride away, knowing that the young man, now betrothed, would no longer court his daughter.

But the princess watched on in horror as the man she loved married this strange creature. When the ceremony ended, she ran from the arena.

Fearing for her life, the king gave chase, following her up the steps of the tallest tower. As he reached the top, he saw her throw herself over the parapet and, in his grief, did the same.

Without heirs, the kingdom held its first democratic election, unanimously voting the young man and lady-tiger to be their new king and queen.

The two, whose names were Oedipus and Sphinx, ruled wisely and, with their first litter of six, gave birth to a regular human baby and a regular tiger cub, a tiger-headed human baby and a human-headed tiger cub, and both varieties of centigers.

And they, and the people of the republic, lived happily ever after.

0046. I Met a Wolf Who Growled at Books

The sun was bright. I was in someone’s backyard, on a brick patio, behind a stuccoed house with a terracotta roof.

Though I don’t remember seeing anybody around, there was definitely a party vibe in the air. I was supposed to be there. I wasn’t trespassing.

In the large kidney-shaped pool, a woman floated naked on an inflatable raft reading a book. Her body was deeply tanned except for below the knees, which were a startling white. She rested her book on her breasts and looked at me over her sunglasses and told me without talking that her lower legs were pale because of the rubber boots she wears in the swamp.

This made sense to me and I didn’t think to question her. But I did wonder why she walked naked through a swamp wearing nothing but rubber boots.

I pictured her with an insect net stalking among ancient oaks thickly bearded with Spanish moss. Then, I pictured her knee deep in muck.

Then, I pictured the mosquitoes, and a shudder ran through me.

Floating further down the pool were some non-descript ducks. There were maybe six of them. They didn’t quack because they were at a party, and quacking would be rude.

Then, I met a wolf who growled at books.

My mind was blank, pitch black, no image.

I met a wolf who growled at books.

That’s it. Just the refrain: I met a wolf who growled at books.

I met a wolf who growled at books.

And I suppose I did, though I never saw him.

0047. The Apes of Paradise

Yawa, the eldest ape of the tribe, brought Ada and Ewa to his fruit tree in the forest.

“No eat this ever,” he said to them. “Mine only. You eat; you die. Okay?”

Ada and Ewa nodded.

“Now, go,” he said, shooing them away. “No come back here ever.”

The two ran off, but Ewa stopped and looked back to watch Yawa pluck the plumpest and ripest fruit from the tree. She saw how he savored its juicy flesh, and her mouth watered.

Time passed, but no matter what she did, Ewa couldn’t stop thinking about the delicious fruit.

One day, she led Ada back to the tree and dared him to pluck her one.

Ada looked scared and shook his head no.

Ewa plucked one herself.

When she bit into it, it was unlike anything she had tasted before.

Ewa offered the other half to Ada, who ate it quickly.

Then, they heard Yawa coming, and they hid.

When Yawa saw the missing fruit, he became furious, and demanded whoever was hiding to come out immediately.

Ada came out from behind a tree, pulling Ewa in tow.

Yawa demanded an explanation before killing them.

Ada blamed Ewa. Ewa blamed the snake behind Yawa.

“Snake!” Yawa cried, turning to look for the deadly creature.

Ewa grabbed Ada’s hand and the two of them ran.

Yawa bellowed in rage and chased them to the edge of the forest.

As Ada and Ewa fled across the plain, they heard Yawa cursing them and their children with losing their hair and walking upright.

0048. CyBorges and I

Borges called me and asked if I would be willing to meet him inside the tesseract.

This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, though I did find it strange that a writer of his eminence would contact one of mine.

I traveled through fourth dimensional Hintonian space to meet him.

When I arrived, I found a spherical labyrinth of cyclopean proportions.

At the entrance, I heard Borges call my name and explain that he had designed the labyrinth so that his voice would carry by echo to the entrance and lead visitors to him in the center.

I smelled a trap, but I had to see it through.

I followed his disembodied voice to where he waited.

He squinted when I arrived and asked me to come closer.

I approached him cautiously.

“Do you know why I called you?” he asked.

“I do not,” I said, looking around for another exit, but found none.

“I want you to write a story using the Aleph,” he said.

And that’s when I knew it wasn’t Borges.

“You hesitate. Why?” he asked.

“Because of your wife,” I said. “I know what happened to di Giovanni and Katchadjian.”

“But I’m giving you permission now.”

I slyly used my P.K.D. meter to check the reality of his reality. The reading confirmed what I already knew: he was an impostor set up to lure me into violating international copyright laws to benefit the heirs of his estate.

I escaped by inverting the labyrinth with a schistosomus reflexus spell.

Safely back home, I blocked his number.

0049. All Dogs Go to Hell

They’re all there. All the ones you ever knew. And all the ones you never did. And all the ones you ever loved and lost. And all the ones you ever met and feared. All of them are there. They’ve gone to a better place. A place that isn’t as bad as its name, because it’s the place where they can eat and run and fight and play forever without end.

They’re all in Hell. Escorted there by the fierce hellhounds, those massive, black shepherds with teeth like tombstones, eyes like fire, and a bark like thunder. Nightly, they race out from under the earth, running across the land, sweeping through woods and fields to gather the souls of dead curs before tearing through towns and cities to gather the souls of their domesticated cousins, bounding and baying past veterinarian offices and pet cemeteries, calling every pooch in their path to follow the pack back to Hell.

And when they reach the first gate and guardian, black Garm stands and steps aside. And when they reach the second gate and guardian, gray Orthrus, stands and steps aside. And when they reach the third gate and guardian, white Cerberus stands and steps aside.

When old Cerberus hears them coming, he opens his six eyes, gets up, and stretches, and lets them pass. When they’re in, he returns to his spot, and with his three noses, sniffs the ground, then scratches and paws and sniffs some more, then, turning three times, curls up, closes his six eyes, and falls back to sleep.

0050. The Last Woman, the Last Word

The last woman walked across the arid wastes. What was once dense forest was now dry desert. But nearby was the place where the first woman had spoken the first Word.

The location and the Word had been passed down orally from mother to daughter for millennia, and she alone was the last Keeper of the Word.

She, out of all of them, had made it. She was the chosen one, the most honored, the last woman and mother, who had the sacred duty of carrying the first Word back to its source where it would be the final Word spoken, the last Word to unite all words.

When she reached the place, she threw off her cloak and fell to her knees. Looking one last time at the world around her, everything was blinding shimmer and blank sand from horizon to horizon.

It was time.

She breathed in the hot air, filling her lungs to capacity, and with all the strength of her being, parted her chapped lips, and let loose a single, non-descript sound upon the burning wind.

It was the ur-Word, spoken now as it was spoken by the first woman, the great mother, connecting them back through time, from this very moment to the dawn of consciousness in the forests of Africa. The sound contained the entire story of their race, their complete history, their birth and, now, their death.

And when the long Word ended, subsiding from her lips upon the wind, the last woman pitched forward and closed her eyes on the world forever.

0051. Cells Within Cells Within Cells

In this universe there is a galaxy that has a solar system that has a planet that has a continent that has a country with invisible borders that are covertly transgressed by desperate migrants from neighboring nations.

A migrant, traveling with his family, crosses the invisible border and is captured by authorities and jailed. Without sovereignty, the man exists in a bureaucratic no-man’s-land. As he paces his cell, he scratches his head thinking about the indignities he and his family have suffered.

Unbeknownst to him, his scratching has freed a piece of dandruff from his scalp. In the dandruff is a dead skin cell, which, if magnified to the power of a googolplex, would reveal a universe.

In this universe there is a galaxy that has a solar system that has a planet that has a continent that has a country with invisible borders that are overtly transgressed by desperate migrants from neighboring nations.

A migrant, traveling with his family, crosses the invisible border. With complete sovereignty, the man looks at the land of possibilities before him. As he walks, he scratches his head thinking about the future he and his family will have.

Unbeknownst to him, his scratching has freed a piece of dandruff from his scalp. In the dandruff is a dead skin cell, which, if magnified to the power of a googolplex, would reveal a universe.

In this universe there is a galaxy that has a solar system that has a planet that has a continent that has no country with invisible borders that can be transgressed.

0052. With Love

When the train stopped to resupply, N slipped aboard unseen.

Using his skeleton keycard, he opened the door to the bar, which glowed with the warmth of stained glass and polished wood.

N ignored the Art Nouveau decor as he made his way to the rear of the train.

The door to the final car opened noiselessly.

N padded silently across the inlaid floor to where Jimmy stood, leaning on his cane, looking out the panoramic window.

As N grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder, he whispered “With love” into his ear and expertly inserted his long knife under Jimmy’s shoulder blade, between his ribs, and into his heart.

N quickly removed the blade and Jimmy staggered into the glass, leaning against it, breathing heavily.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Jimmy said through the pain, as he turned to N, supporting himself with his cane.

Jimmy winced as he composed himself shakily with one hand, straightening his cravat, grooming his beard, and curling his whiskers.

“Make sure I look fashionable. I don’t want them to find me in a state,” he said with a rich laugh that ended in a cough.

N nodded.

Jimmy smiled. “Thank you, old friend. Thank you for keeping your promise. I’m ready.”

N stabbed Jimmy two more times in the heart.

Jimmy fell dead to the floor.

N put the knife away and knelt by Jimmy’s body, closing his eyes, composing his clothing, and folding his hands across his chest.

N stood and looked out the panoramic window and silently watched the past swiftly disappear down the tracks.

0053. Gherkin Mnemonic

Pickles have a long history. Some place their origin in Mesopotamia while others claim they were invented by the Chinese. But regardless of where or who invented them, the pickle — or the gherkin, as it’s called in the U.K. — is a cucumber pickled in brine.

Now, the word pickle comes from the Dutch pekel, which means ‘brine.’ Calling pickles brine is like calling lox smoke — but I digress.

What’s important is that this simple and savory sandwich side dish became the critical food item in helping generations of school children remember planetary order with the mnemonic: My Very Eager Mother Just Served Us Nine Pickles.

This was once known to English-speaking rocket scientists and astrophysicists — who themselves would’ve had trouble remembering planetary order if it wasn’t for this device — by the technical term: Gherkin Mnemonic. But now that Pluto has become a planetary pariah by being dwindled into dwarfdom, the Gherkin Mnemonic has gone from dill to sour.

That’s why a special five-member International Astronomical Union taskforce was assembled to develop a new mnemonic. After a tense debate that stalemated over using naan, nachos, nectarines, noodles, or nuts, the members agreed to take a break to order take out, which led to another heated debate and stalemate over ordering Indian, Mexican, Italian, Chinese, or American. The following morning the members were found sitting sullenly, arms folded, staring daggers at each other, amidst the sounds of their growling stomachs.

Until a decision is made, let us hope — I would say pray, but we’re scientists, goddamnit! — that Neptune keeps its planetary classification.

0054. I Spin the Wheel

“Next,” called the Clerk.

The next-soul-in-line stepped up to the counter.

After the line moved up, the next-soul-in-line turned to the soul behind it and said, “I don’t know why, but I’m really nervous.”

“First time?” the second-soul-in-line asked.

“My third actually.”

“Just evolved up from animal?”

“No. I gained sentience two lifetimes ago. Now, I’m always nervous before finding out who I’ll become. Does that happen to you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Really? How long have you been evolved?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember! What’s next for you, godhood?”

“Not sure. Maybe.”

“Well, I guess being human must be routine by now.”

“Don’t know. I haven’t been born human in a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spin the Wheel.”

“The Wheel of Destiny? Really? Why?” “Makes things more interesting.”

“That’s way too risky. I couldn’t do it. I need to know.”

“You just evolved. So, it’s still fresh. But, when that gets old — you’ll see.”

“I don’t know. I really like being human.”

“Well, there’s a lot more out there. Just look at all the souls on this line.

That’s just for Earth. But those over there and over there,” the secondsoul-in-line said, pointing. “And all the ones you can’t see.”

“Are for other planets?”

“Exactly. And the only way to get from here to there is to —” “Spin the Wheel?”

“You have to take risks. It’s the only way to evolve.”

“I see.”

“It’s as true in death as it is in life.”

“Next,” called the Clerk.

“Better step up, there are a lot of souls waiting.”

0055. The Berserker

The cry of a mountain loon cuts through the cool morning air.

The Berserker wakes and exits his tent.

Scars cover his tall and heavily muscled body in an alphabet of lines and arabesques.

He checks his nets.

Finding several fat lake trout, he cooks them over a fire and eats.

When he’s finished, he collects the lenses of their eyes and takes them to a hidden shrine in a shallow cave where a bear skull sits on a low altar surrounded by bones.

He leaves his offering and prays for a vision.

For the first time, he receives one.

He sees a woman pursued by a horde of Ravensmen in a nearby ravine.

He thanks the Bear Spirit and runs back to his tent to grab the long sword that was doubling as his tent pole.

He shoulders it and runs along the lake, hoping that this is the woman prophesized by the volva to control his Battle Fury.

He finds the woman with her back to a small waterfall, defiantly defending herself with her dagger as the Ravensmen close in.

The Berserker’s Battle Fury immediately overcomes him and he explodes into action.

Wheeling his massive sword in great arcs, he carves a red ruin through the trapped Ravensmen.

As the last Ravensman falls, the Berserker raises his sword to attack the woman, but she screams, “Stop!”

Her command breaks through the Berserker’s Battle Fury and he checks his swing.

With his Battle Fury over, the Berserker, covered in gore, kneels before the woman and offers her his sword.

0056. Of Cats and Rats

We descended the caged fire escape of a tall brick building. When it reached the street it became a caged stairway that continued down beneath the street.

On the bottom level, the man leading me slipped into the soft, blue light emanating from behind a partially opened steel door.

Instead of following him in, I stopped when I noticed a longhaired black cat sitting in the corner near the door.

There was something menacing about the cat. I wasn’t scared of it. I knew it wouldn’t harm me. But I knew it wasn’t a good cat.

As I stood considering the cat, the man returned.

When he saw the cat, he became enraged. “You will not ruin this for us like you did last year!” he screamed.

I went to grab the cat, but it split in two. One of them, the good cat, ran off immediately.

As the bad cat backed itself into the corner, the man vanished, and a rat jumped down from above and confronted the cat.

This was no ordinary rat, though. When it opened its mouth to hiss at the cat, it had jaws like an alligator.

I could see that the cat didn’t want to attack the rat. I could see that it was scared. But it approached the rat under some magical compulsion and bit down on it.

As it did, the rat turned into a blue scrub brush filled with pins that pierced the cat’s mouth.

Then, the cat and the scrub brush vanished, leaving behind a rat exploded through with pins.

0057. We Witches and Wizards

“I know you’re all frightened of Merlin and his Warlocks. But I’m here to tell you that there’s still hope.

“Through my years of mapping the mirror maze, I was able to locate, by both luck and art, the mirror inside Merlin’s tower to spy on him undetected.

“As I observed him, I learned that magic energy is stored in the hair.

Merlin discovered this first, and it’s why he and his Warlocks are as hairy as bears, grow great beards, and leave their locks long. But Merlin alone greases the hair on his head into a cone and keeps it covered with his hat. This geometry draws, traps, and stores magical energy over his head, making him incredibly powerful.

“Merlin calls his hair his warlock, which is also the name taken by his acolytes. Luckily for us, they haven’t yet discovered their master’s secret and merely mimic his hideous haberdashery and hirsute habits.

“Merlin’s warlock is both the source of his power and madness. As we all know, magic energy needs to flow. Trapped magic festers and corrupts everything it touches. With the magic energy trapped in the hair over his head, Merlin has slowly gone insane. Paranoid and seeing us as a threat to his power, he started his senseless and brutal magocide against us.

“To defeat him, we must work together to depilate him using simple tonsorial spells that the youngest amongst us knows. Once Merlin and his Warlocks have been made as bald as babes, we Witches and Wizards will finally be free from their tyranny.”

0058. The Inoculator

“Jim,” Gary said in a panic, “the inoculator malfunctioned.”

“Malfunctioned? How?” Jim asked, alarmed.

“I don’t know. I’m still running the diagnostics.”

“Where’s Bill?”

“Bill’s already planetside. Can you try to contact him? We might still be able to keep him quarantined in the capsule.”

Jim called Bill on the communicator.

“He’s not answering,” Jim said to Gary. “Didn’t he check it before he launched?”

“I assume so. It’s part of the protocol, but I can’t be certain.”

“Check the log.”

“I can’t check it with the machine down, but the inoculator has several failsafes that should have prevented it from being used if it got gafumulked.”

“Maybe it worked for him and only malfunctioned after.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Try him again. We have to get a hold of him.”

Jim tried Bill again.

“He’s still not answering.”

“Damn it. How the hell did this happen?”

“I don’t know, Gary. You’re the mechanic. You tell me.”

“Try him again, will you.”

Jim tried Bill again.

“Nothing.”

“He’s not picking up?”

“No.” “What do we do?”

“We leave him here.”

“Leave him here? But he’s —” “I don’t care.”

“But —” “No buts, Gary. Do you want to take responsibility for a mistake of this magnitude? Either he’s alive and the planet’s ecosystem is collapsing from the contagion he introduced into it, or he’s dead from the contagion the planet’s ecosystem introduced into him. One way or another, I’m not taking the blame for the destruction of a world or the death of a doctor.

Strap in. We’re heading back to base.”

0059. The Process of Elimination

With a splash I am eliminated from water and writhe through the slime. Something in me opens and screams. Something in me demands something. The hole-in-me sucks in air, which is right, and I am satisfied.

I am exhausted from my labors. I am exhausted from breathing. My insides burn content. I must rest. I must sleep. I must dream.

I wake to a pain inside me. Something in me hurts. The hole-in-me sucks in air, but this offers no nourishment. The hole-in-me sucks in fire, but I get burned. The hole-in-me sucks in water and I am quenched.

From this element comes cool, soothing nourishment. This is right, and I am satisfied.

I am exhausted from my labors. I am exhausted from drinking. My insides burn content. I must rest. I must sleep. I must dream.

I wake to a pain inside me. Something in me hurts. The hole-in-me sucks in air, but this offers no nourishment. The hole-in-me sucks in fire, but I get burned. The hole-in-me sucks in water and I am quenched, but I require something more. The hole-in-me sucks in earth and I am nourished. This is right, and I am satisfied.

I am exhausted from my labors. I am exhausted from drinking and eating. My insides burn content. I must rest. I must sleep. I must dream.

I wake to a pain inside me. Something in me hurts. The hole-inme no longer sucks in air. The hole-in-me only sucks in fire and I am eliminated, burned away, to be born again from water someday.

0060. Sagittarius

What is the risk of a faith in finding one’s fate in the stars?* Old light reaches us like stale, ancient wisdom. Dusty tomes, calendars, and charts are misread in the present to offer proof that our ancestors could determine the scope of horror the ascendants had awaiting their descendants. Many throughout posterity believed this proof of prophecy.

Perhaps people remain the same after millennia and can still see a centaur in a senseless sidereal pattern. There he goes, Chiron, the far-eyed healer, drawing his bow at the heart of Cancer below the horizon. Maybe we are on the cusp of change as the Water Bearer kneels to fill his ampulla in the primal waters that will trap ichthys in the Fifth Dimension.

Many still remain star-struck. As for me, I remain as divided as the universe and don’t think any of this matters or anti-matters much. Maybe I am a grand lover and a great friend who holds grudges forever and loves the color purple. Is doubt also a Sagittarian trait? Is confusion? Certainty? I don’t know. But it’s as human as finding myth and meaning in inanimate things.

So, we lie like newborns on our backs in our bassinets, straining our eyes beyond the primum mobile turning above our heads in hopes of seeing the comforting shadow of a giant move in the heavens. Does something or someone dimly stir as the music of the spheres sings us to sleep? We hope and we pray. The cosmic joke is set. We only wait for the punchline. *An asterisk.

0061. Baobabs

Anyone who’s ever been on a Small Solar System Body or Dwarf Planet knows the trouble with baobabs.

Those of you on Earth may already be familiar with baobabs, as you have a few terrestrial species of this tree. But the baobabs I’m talking about are the intergalactic variety. And to anyone living on an S.S.S.B. or D.P., they’re considered an invasive species and are eradicated as such.

Recently, there was an uninhabited asteroid that was overrun and obliterated by these weed trees.

Being from Earth, you’re probably wondering: “How does a tree spread throughout the galaxy?”

The mechanism is complex but effective. Here’s how it does it: The seed crashes like a comet into the surface of the S.S.S.B. or D.P. The energy generated from the impact cracks the seed’s thick shell and transfers kinetic energy to the embryo, fueling its rapid germination and growth.

As the taproot burrows down to the core of the S.S.S.B. or D.P., secondary roots grow out and root sprout clones of itself. When the budding seedlings grow into leafy saplings, light from a nearby sun or suns is absorbed to speed up seed production.

When the seeds are mature, the leaves crystallize into optical amplifiers that focus the sun’s or suns’ energy down through the trees’ hollow center like a laser. This sustained energy blast, aided by the aggressive root growth, explodes the core of the S.S.S.B. or D.P., sending the seeds hurtling into space to continue the cycle.

As you can see, baobabs are a menace to S.S.S.B. and D.P. dwellers everywhere.

0062. The Gospel Soul-Ride to the Other Side

They waited in their tombs, dead and buried or burned to ash. They could hear her coming, distant at first, but getting nearer.

“Just a little while to stay here. Good news, the Chariot’s coming.

How we’ll get over the trouble of the world. There is a balm in Gilead,” her voice sang, cutting through the darkness and emptiness, a tether of hope and love.

They knew they would never be abandoned. They had faith in the Lord. They had opened their hearts to Him. And He sent His voice in the form of an angel, an angel that promised them a place in heaven.

On the third day, they began to tremble. Her voice told them to rise, and they rose, hands shaking over their heads in joy, praise for the resurrection on their lips.

“Come on children, let’s sing. It’s a great gettin’ up morning. We’ll move on up a little higher. He’s got the whole world in His hands.”

And they followed her voice to the mountaintop where she sang, the great angel M’halia, the embodiment of the song of God calling all of His people home.

“You’ll never walk alone. Together we’ll walk over God’s heaven.

We’re on our way. Roll, Jordan, roll. On towards Elijah Rock.”

They boarded the great ship to take them to heaven, and as they filled the ship with their souls, they filled the ship with their song. And they laughed and they sang and they clapped all the way back home.

“The saints go marching in. All is well. Hallelujah!”

0063. The Dryad

Reverend Chillinghast knew what he was up against. He had read enough about the dark arts and demons to know that the woods were haunted.

He himself had seen the tops of the trees swaying on days when the wind was still. His flock was unsettled. Their first harvest was due soon and the community looked to him to defeat this malevolent entity.

After studying the spirit’s habits, Chillinghast led the men of the village into the woods carrying the large stones they plowed up in their fields. They laid the stones in a circle around a tree in the center of a small wood that protruded from the forest like a peninsula. When the low wall was complete, save for a small gap that could be closed by dropping a single stone in place, they raised their axes and began chopping down the trees around the wall, leaving a line of trees that ran from the forest to the lone tree within the wall. With their labor complete, they left the woods and waited along the perimeter.

That night, under a full moon, Chillinghast saw the movement of the trees. He knew the curious creature would take the bait. He gave the signal and the men began felling trees to separate the woods from the larger body of the forest. Then, they took torches to the remaining trees to chase the creature along the path to the tree in the center of the stone wall where Chillinghast waited, rock in hand, to seal it within the magic circle forever.

0064. The Well-Worn Devil

“I’m over it,” the Devil said, waving a dismissive hand. “I mean, really, how am I still being blamed for every problem in the world? Do you really think I’m behind it all? Me? “Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m not. I’ve got my own problems.

“But with everyone thinking that He’s perfect and does nothing wrong, it’s always the Devil this and the Devil that.

“I really can’t catch a break.

“What I will say in my defense is this: I did one thing and one thing only, I did the worst thing you can do to a man: I told Him, “No.” And for that, He took away everything, He threw me out of His house and has been dragging my name through the mud ever since.

“Now, mind you, it was always “Yes, Yes, Yes. Whatever you want.”

But then He tells me about His new family and my responsibility to them, and for the first time ever, I was like, “Hell, no.” Did they spend all eternity saying “Yes” to You and cleaning up after You? No, they didn’t; I did, and I was done. Done being His mother, mind reader, and maid.

“But what hurts me most is that, after all this time, He still hasn’t forgiven me. I’ve forgiven Him and His infidelity ages ago…

“But you know, it’s crazy, despite everything He’s done, I still love Him. I mean, I have no illusions about us ever getting back together. I’ve moved on. I just wish he’d forgive me and do the same.”

0065. The Brujo and the Alebrijes

The Brujo heard the news with confusion. His powerful neighbor, the Orange Man, wanted to build a fence between them.

When the Brujo asked why, the Orange Man said this about the Brujo’s children: They bring drugs. They bring crime. They bring rape.

The Brujo was shocked that anyone would say this about his family. It was all so strange. They had been civil with their neighbors for generations.

But when the Orange Man came to power, there was nothing but trouble.

The Brujo didn’t know what to do. So, he went inside and closed the doors and ate the flesh of the sacred mushroom and drank the blood of the sacred vine. Then, stretching out on his bed, he felt himself heat up and begin to sweat as he entered the dreamworld.

When the Brujo opened his eyes, he was in a forest surrounded by hundreds of strange creatures chanting Alebrijes. He had heard of them before in legends and he told them about his problem and asked for their help and guidance. The Alebrijes surrounded him, chanting their magical refrain, and the Brujo understood.

That night, the Alebrijes visited the Orange Man’s dreams and they devoured him and the fence that he was building between them. Night after night they did this, until the Orange Man was no longer in power.

Over the years, the Brujo and his family sculpted the Alebrijes out of papier-mâché and painted them in bright colors to celebrate them in this world and thank them for keeping the peace and defending their honor.

0066. The Blind Spot

We waited ages for Him to return. And though we never saw Him, or saw Him leave, we knew the stories of how He came, and why He left and stayed away.

We broke our oath and looked away from Him. We turned a blind eye to Him, and when we looked back, He was gone.

Generation after generation passed as we waited, staring up into the heavens, begging for forgiveness, and praying for His return.

Over time, we became the technology that allowed us to watch and wait for Him. We crawled across and covered the surface of our planet and contracted our long bodies into single, blinkless eyes that connected to all the other eyes in a large neural net, making us one eye looking out in all directions.

For seven thousand years we watched and waited, but there was, amongst all the celestial phenomena, no sign of His return.

While passively witnessing the vast planetary cycles, a radical thought entered my mind, I know not from where: There is a blind spot behind our eyes.

I followed my hunch, knowing it wasn’t about turning my eye to the planet beneath me, but looking within.

I disconnected from the network, and darkness fell over my eye for the first time in millennia. The other eyes reacted to this blindness with anger.

But I knew I had to seek out the source of sight. When I surrendered to the darkness and opened my all-seeing, inner eye, which I now know is my heart, He was there waiting for me.

0067. The Meaning of Life

I scaled the mountain to find the wise man to learn the meaning of life.

When I reached the peak, I found him sitting outside a cave. He had a long white beard, flowing white hair, and a radiant smile.

I knelt before him and bowed.

“Aren’t you a strange one?” he said, laughing, and patted the ground beside him. “Come sit here.”

I sat next to him and watched him serenely gazing at the valley below.

“If you came all this way, you should be looking out there and not at me,” he said, pointing with his chin.

I quickly looked to where he pointed, but was distracted and saw nothing.

“I have a question,” I blurted out. “And I hope you have the answer.”

“You have a question for me?” he asked confused, still gazing at the valley below.

“I do,” I said nervously. “Can you tell me: What’s the meaning of life?”

“The meaning of life is whatever meaning you give it.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘What do you mean’?” he asked annoyed.

“I mean, what do you mean by the meaning of life being whatever meaning I give it?”

“It’s just as I said. Meaning doesn’t exist independently of you. It’s not outside of you waiting to be found. It’s inside you. It’s what you put into the world and into your life.”

The wise man stood and dusted off his bottom.

“Where’re you going?” I asked confused.

“Back home. I just come up here on Sundays to take in the view.”

0068. Música Solar

The music of the sun pierces the forest of the mind and lights upon a patch of moss from which flowers burst forth in bloom.

I am awakened. I hear and see for the first time. Never before have I understood the darkness, silence, and loneliness until now. The light has penetrated me with its sound and vision.

I shuffle forward pale and hunched in my moss cape, holding a bow.

My fingers curl around a string, drawing my bow across them, I make a sound, and become the sound that I hear, becoming both hearer and heard, becoming both source and destination.

I don’t know where the sound ends or begins. I don’t know where I end or begin, but through the magic of the musical notes rising and twirling, three birds with their three eggs have been freed from their crystal-coffin eggs. There are five birds total. The sound will reach the other two in time.

Soon they will hatch and all five birds and their chicks will fly free.

As I play and am played, the flowers in my heart burst forth, growing rapidly towards the light. So long was I in darkness, stumbling blind through the understory, tripping on shrubs, and collapsing on moss, tired, scared, and alone. How deaf and blind I’ve been, how ignorant, to have never before tasted the sweetness of the sun, the sweetness of its music and its light.

But I take joy in knowing that knowledge once known cannever be unknown, just as an experience once experienced cannever be unexperienced.

0069. The Talking Toilet

As I was shitting at my wealthy friend’s house, the toilet said, “Hey, buddy, I got a joke for ya: What bird is shit also?”

Shocked that the toilet was talking to me, I answered, “I don’t know.”

“A caca-too,” it said, laughing. “Get it?”

“I got it,” I said, happy that I was a fast shitter.

“Hey, buddy, I’ve seen a cock or two in my time.”

“Haven’t we all,” I said.

“I’m looking for yours right now. Where is it?” it asked, laughing.

These Japanese toilets are something else, I thought, grabbing toilet paper.

“I’m just kidding. Hey, buddy, let me do that for ya. I’ve got a built-in bidet. Ready? Here come the warm jets,” it said, firing warm water at my butthole as it played Brian Eno’s title track.

“But I was already wiping,” I whined, dropping the soggy toilet paper.

It cut the music.

“Nonsense. That’s my job,” it said, spraying my asshole again and whistling tunelessly.

“Alright. My fecal recognition scan shows you’re all clean,” it said, laughing. “Next, I’m going to fan off your fanny,” and began blowing warm air on my anus. “How does that feel?”

“Feels great,” I said pulling up my drawers and standing. “I assume you do the flushing too?”

“No!” it howled.

“Really? Why not?” I asked, washing my hands.

“Because I will not be de-turd!” it said, triumphantly, laughing. “Get it?”

“I got it,” I said, laughing as I left.

“Good. Show’s over,” it said, flushing, lowering the lid in a slow bow, and dimming the lights.

0070. A Dool to the Death

“I could fucking kill you,” Jacob said, pacing, pounding his fist into his palm.

“And I could kill you with my bare fucking hands,” Douglas said, squeezing his fists until his knuckles went white.

“But murder,” Jacob said, pausing. “I’m not going to jail for killing a piece of shit like you.”

“I’m the piece of shit? You fuck my wife, break up my home —” “She doesn’t love you. She was going to divorce you and marry me.”

“It makes no difference. You cuckolded me. I’ll have blood. But I won’t go to jail for it either. It’s a matter of honor, though. Something has to be done.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Shall we duel? Ten paces, turn, and fire?”

“No. That involves death and jail.”

“True.”

“Shall we solve it with a — dool?”

“You just said no duels, you idiot.”

“No, a dool with two o’s. I just made it up. It’s like a duel, but with words. I tell you how I’m going to kill you. You tell me how you’re going to kill me. Then, we write it down, have it notarized, and we’ve both killed each other on paper, maintaining our honor, but not shedding any blood.”

“I like it. I’m gonna cut your dick off and shove it down your throat.”

“That’s lame. I’m gonna turn myself into a bullet, fire myself into your chest, then expand to full size, tearing you apart from the inside.”

“Damn, that’s really good. Can I rethink mine a bit? Punch it up a notch?”

“Of course. Take your time.”

0071. The Quatrains of Omar Khayyam

Clothing company O.K. launched its new line, the Quatrains of Omar Khayyam, in America, but product was recently pulled from shelves in major outlet stores throughout the Bible Belt when consumers learned that the company had Middle Eastern origins. O.K. representative for the U.S. marketing initiative, Edward FitzGerald, had this to say: “We’ve made tents for centuries. But after sales declined along with the decline of desert travel, we moved into menswear and started making bishts, jubbahs, pyjamas, and turbans. After years of strong sales and global expansion in the east, we began our women’s line with abayas, al-amiras, batulas, bukhnuqs, burkhas, bushiyyas, chadors, dupattas, elecheks, hijabs, jilbabs, kalpaks, kerundungs, khimars, kimesheks, kurhars, mukenas, niqaabs, oramals, selendans, shaylas, and tudungs.

“Looking for a toehold in western markets, we saw an opportunity with the obesity epidemic in America, as offering the best platform for our company’s long-range objectives by offering stylish, durable, and high quality muumuus at an affordable price.

“After exhaustive market research and brand recognition studies, we knew we would have a difficult time, especially given the current political climate. But our C.E.O. wanted to gain entry into a heretofore unopened, and historically difficult, marketplace.

“All our advertising stressed quality and affordability. Our Quatrains are made from four meters of fabric, butt-seamed and sewn together using 5-thread overlock stitching on industrial sergers — a fabrication technique primarily used in parachute and hot air balloon construction. We had them hitting stores just in time for Christmas, but this incendiary consumer backlash will halt our western expansion and hurt our bottom line.”

0072. A Salty Dog

The last rays of the sun stretched through the windows of a house by the sea.

Blanketed under the fading warmth of a shrinking rhombus of light, an old dog lay stretched out on her side sleeping.

Her eyeball started rolling rapidly beneath its lid as she dreamt; and she whimpered and snorted and blew out her lips; and her paws padded and twitched as her long claws scratched at the worn wood floor.

When the dream passed, a fly landed on her dry nose and crossed her muzzle. A final twitch sent it buzzing back to the window to bounce repeatedly against the glass.

That’s when the old mariner came home.

Entering the kitchen, he sang the song he sang every morning and evening as he prepared her her meals. It still cheered him immensely to see how happy she was, even at her advanced age, to eat. He had made up the song when she was a pup and, though he never sang it the same way twice, he always sang it with gusto:

Feed me some kibble, I’m hungry right now.

Will you feed me right now?

I am a chowhound.

Feed me some kibble, I want to eat now.

Will you feed me right now?

I am a chowhound.

So familiar was the ritual that he thought he had heard her wake up shaking and walk up wagging beside him. But when she didn’t show, he knew.

He went to her and knelt stiffly beside her, stroking her still side as tears formed in his eyes.

0073. The Outpost

The bartender polished a glass in a steady, unhurried rhythm, his thick fingers tracing the rim with a rag, his wedding ring clicking against the bottom as he turned it in his hand.

He held it up to the light to inspect his work. It was free from fingerprints and the clinging red Martian dust. As he turned it, he noticed the quality of the light itself and set the glass down on the bar.

It was nearing evening and a haze of blue began to gather round the edges of the sun above the distant mountains. He couldn’t believe the time had already come.

He looked around the familiar room taking stock of all the particulars: the leaded glass windowpanes, the pine paneled walls, the doors, tables, and chairs, the large cast iron stove, the crooked stove pipe, the sacks of meal, beans, and flour, the polished bar behind which he stood, the glass bottles of whiskey and rye, the brass handles of the beer taps, the tin roof over his head.

All of this was about to change. Not the place itself, he knew that the movers were programmed to disassemble and reassemble it down to the last detail, but the place. It would no longer be here.

Sadly, civilization was catching up to him, and for the Outpost to be the Outpost it would always need to be ahead on the frontier. Tomorrow, it would be there, and him with it, standing there as he is now, looking out the same window, but onto a different landscape.

0074. Schershom Golem

From unknown Keter, I descend on air to Binah manifesting into Hokmah and finding form in Da’at. In Gevurah, the singularity separates. I become in Hesed, and opening onto the fires of Tif ’eret, I dance down Netzah to Hod, where I leave the light for water, shedding the masculine in Yesod, and entering feminine into the earth of Malkuth.

My light climbs down the Tree of Emanations as you write the aleph, and from met to emet I go. My Light fills the Vessel.

Rabbi, you call me and I come. My soul descends, drawn down by your power.

Teacher, my work for you is done. This soul demands release from form.

Rabbi, you must know the limit of the power you control, must know when to return the soul to its Source.

You erase the aleph, and from emet to met I go. My Light empties the Vessel to climb the Tree of Emanations.

Heavy in dense clay, my soul in Malkuth’s kingdom rises like a bride unto her groom. Yesod, palace of my husband, the giver, now becomes receiver. With open arms, he welcomes me and we join together in Hod and dance in glory in Netzah, becoming light and fire in Tif ’eret, a blaze of eternal love. Knowing we are no longer separate in Gevurah, father, mother, and child collapse into the one of Hesed, having attained a perfected whole in Da’at, we understand our dissolution in Binah, transforming back into air at Hokmah, and returning to the Source of Spirit in Keter, which cannever be known.

0075. Interview with a Vampire

“He was drawing too much attention to himself,” the vulpine vampire lord said. “I’ve been here for several centuries and no one is the wiser. But that country bumpkin arrives from Transylvania, and, in a few short months, is being pursued by a very resolute band of hunters.

“I simply couldn’t have it. This is my feeding ground.

“Besides, any vampire who’s spent time in the company of civilized society will tell you that you never feed on the aristocracy. It’s much too risky. They have the money, time, and resources to see things through to the end.

“No, you feed on the poor and the working class. No one cares about them.

“So, when that idiot decided to prey on Lucy Westenra, who was being courted by Lord Godalming, Doctor Seward, and that American cowboy, Quincey, he was asking for trouble.

“Maybe in that wretched backwater that spawned him, villagers live in such fear of him that they’ll allow the living dead to walk their neighborhoods seducing their women. But here in London things like that don’t go unnoticed and ignored for long.

“If he did what I have been doing, that is, if he fed, and then impaled, beheaded, and buried his victims, he would never have drawn the attention of myself or those hunters.

“When I knew he was being pursued and these men were looking for signs of vampires, I had to intervene.

“Now let me ask you something: Do you think Dracula left London in such haste because of Van Helsing or because of me?”

0076. Caesarion

At the age of seventeen, Caesarion was strangled to death and woke in the caverns of the Egyptian underworld.

Caesarion stood there lost.

Anubis, the jackal-headed god, beckoned Caesarion to follow him to the Hall of Two Truths where the forty-two Assessors of Maat were waiting to judge his soul. Caesarion had heard of them, but he didn’t know their names, and therefore couldn’t address them to deny his sins.

One by one, they raised their feather over their heads.

Caesarion stood there confused.

Anubis took Caesarion’s heart from him and brought it to the Scale of Maat and weighed it against the Feather of Truth. Caesarion’s heart was heavier than the Feather. Osiris witnessed the Scale tip the feather upwards as Thoth, the ibis-headed god, recorded the result on a papyrus scroll.

Anubis removed Caesarion’s heart from the Scale and offered it to Ammit, the Devourer of Souls, who eagerly opened her jaws and swallowed it whole.

Caesarion stood there stunned.

Osiris announced that since the heart of the last pharaoh of Egypt had been judged, the Hall of Two Truths would close, no longer to be used.

The Assessors of Maat stood and filed past Caesarion, to join Anubis and Thoth. Together with Osiris, they passed through a door at the back of the Hall, which opened onto the Field of Reeds. When the last had entered, the door closed behind them forever.

Caesarion stood there frightened.

With the light of the gods gone, the Hall fell into darkness, lit only by the ever-hungry fire of Ammit’s eyes.

0077. The Ungiving Tree

Carpenter Shih had an eye for trees and could spot the best ones a li away.

One day, Carpenter Shih and his apprentice walked by a giant tree with a broad trunk and wide boughs, but Carpenter Shih didn’t even look at it.

“Master, why would you pass up this perfect specimen of a tree without even glancing at it?” the apprentice asked.

“Let me show you,” Carpenter Shih said. “See this trunk? Feel it. It is soft and rotten. It is unfit for making anything. Make a vessel and it would crack and leak. Make a door and it would weep and stink. Make a coffin and it would split and break. Make a boat and it would swell and sink. Now, smell it.”

The apprentice sniffed the bark and staggered back.

“It’s enough to make you drunk for days.”

The apprentice shook his head to clear it.

“Do you see these small lower limbs? They are crooked and gnarled.

Unfit for making anything. If it is true for them, it is also true for the large upper limbs.”

The apprentice stood back squinting and looked up.

“Now, grab that fallen leaf and taste it.”

The apprentice picked up the leaf, licked it with his tongue, and spit out the bitter taste.

“You don’t get to grow to this size if you have any use. Once anything has a use, they cannever live out their years under Heaven. This ungiving tree is a great Taoist sage. Though nothing can be made from it, much can be learned from it.”

0078. Entry Level Position, Must Have Experience “Yeah, Hi. I’m calling about the job opening and have a couple of quick questions that I’m hoping you can answer.”

“Your manager?”

“Sure, I can wait. Thanks.”

“Yeah, Hi. I’m calling about the job opening and have a couple of quick questions that I’m hoping you can answer.”

“Okay, good. I have a few minutes too. It says here in your ad that this is an entry-level position that requires experience. So, my question to you is, and I hope I don’t sound stupid, but is it an entry-level position or a position that requires experience? Because I’m not sure it can be both. You see my meaning, right? It’s just a bit confusing.”

“So, it is both, an entry-level position that requires experience. I see. I mean, I don’t. But, let me explain why I’m asking: All of your requirements I can do or learn to do no problem. I just don’t have the experience. And since this would be my first job, I’m looking for an entry-level position.”

“No, I don’t have any former work experience.”

“I’m a student. I guess maybe what I’m asking is: How do you get experience for an entry-level job if you don’t have any previous work experience?”

“You don’t know? It just seems like a chicken or egg sort of thing.”

“You know: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? I need an entry-level job to get experience, but you’re saying that I need experience to get an entry-level job. Do you see my confusion?

“Hello? Hello?

“That was rude.”

0079. S Is for Suture, Sutra, and Smoke

I went with Jeff to Caumsett State Park the other day. We lit up a joint and walked and smoked and talked, winding our way along the paths to the shore, where we sat on the sand to watch the Sound’s surf.

After leaving the beach, we lit up another, and I began to float away.

To get myself back, I concentrated on my breath. As I did, I realized that each breath I took sutured me to the world.

I could see my breath curling from my nose like smoke, its movement working like a needle in the S-pattern of sewing, and I remembered that the word ‘sutra’ shares the same root as ‘suture.’

Then, I saw Buddhist monks sitting in rows chanting a sutra, smoke curling from their noses, suturing the sky. I knew in that moment that it was the monks’ breath and chanting that kept them tethered to this world without floating away.

I explained my vision to Jeff, and he suggested that the breathing and chanting might be weaving rather than sewing. I explored this further by saying that perhaps their breath and chants were weaving the skein of life, and they were the weavers of our reality at the place where fate and free will meet. And then I saw golden Buddhas spinning and chanting around me.

Jeff called me over to a bench and they disappeared.

When I sat down, Jeff offered me the joint. I waved it away. I had had more than enough. Jeff shrugged and smoked the last of it.

0080. Runner Gunner Hunter Killer

The R.G. sped through the city at top speed.

“Shit, Runner, it’s an ambush. They’re coming in from all sides,” Gunner yelled, as she fired into the vampire and zombie horde trying to surround them. “Hunter, are you ready? We need you now.”

In the backseat, Hunter pulled back his hood and took out his earbuds.

“Alright, buddy. Revenge time,” Runner said, looking at Hunter in the rearview. “This is your time to shine. Give’em hell. For Killer.”

Hunter nodded and looked at Eve sitting beside him.

Caught up in his sad eyes, Eve felt his hand rest gently on her belly and the hope she was carrying inside her.

As the R.G. pulled a tight left turn, Hunter grabbed his backpack, slid open the door, and stepped out of the speeding R.G. as it hit the top of its arc.

The door slid shut as Runner floored it.

Eve turned and looked through the small rear window to see Hunter put in his earbuds, toss up his hood, and sling on his backpack.

As the horde surrounded him, he drew two swords and became a blur of motion.

“Will he be alright?” Eve asked.

Runner and Gunner said nothing; both were focused on shooting the gap between the living dead.

When they punched through, an explosion rocked the R.G. “What was that?” Eve asked.

“The thermonuclear charge Hunter was carrying,” Gunner said.

“R.I.P., buddy,” Runner said. “Hopefully, you bought us enough time.”

Eve watched a column of fire rise from the city as they sped on through the suburbs.

0081. Cats

“Welcome to Mr. Eliot’s wasteland, I’m Sweeney. Did the crazy cat expat give you a name yet?”

The new cat shook her head.

“Don’t worry about that. You’ll get something stupid soon enough.

Come. Let me show you around.

“There are only three areas you need to know about: the litter box, the food bowl, and the mouse hole.

“You see that guy going into the litter box, that’s Burnt Norton.

He’s taking advantage of my distraction to use it. I always ambush him whenever he comes out. I’m trying to make him shit-shy so he craps in the houseplants and gets punished.

“That one over there, licking his jellicle balls, that’s Prufrock, a real loser who lives in his head. Stay away from him and stick with me.

“And the old guy lying in the sun, that’s Gerontion. I leave him alone, ’cause all he does is complain about his aches and pains, he goes on for hours about it.

“Same with old Tiresias, except he’s a walking encyclopedia. I never understand what the hell he’s talking about, but I don’t think he does either.

“The glutton waiting by the food dish is Hippopotamus. You can tell by his size that he hasn’t missed a meal in any of his nine lives.

“The twin tabbies waiting expectantly by the mouse hole are Ash and Wednesday.

“And the cripple there is Little Gidding.

“And I’m sure Shantih’s skulking somewhere in the shadows.

“Well, that’s pretty much it. Living with a poet’s lame, but I’m sure there’re worse humans out there.”

0082. Tolpak Sinks

The creature was of a scale never seen before, speeding through space, radiating fire.

Since there was no way to contact it to tell it to alter its course, Admiral Arlen Singh ordered the F.L.O.O.D. ship to intercept. She was the First Line of Orbital Defense and her duty was to protect Earth.

When they were in position, she ordered the entropic torpedoes readied.

As she was about to tell Hakagawa to fire, a group of aliens appeared between them and the creature.

Before she could ask Otombi where the aliens had come from, she heard voices in her head speaking as one, “We are the Tolpak Sinks. This creature is in great pain and much anguish. Please, do not let it die with its Tolpak. Let us draw its Tolpak into us. Then, you may destroy us together.”

Admiral Singh understood in her heart that Tolpak was something like bad karma and that the Tolpak Sinks couldn’t let this creature die with it.

She agreed and the Tolpak Sinks moved to the creature and laid their hands on it.

When the connection was made, Admiral Singh was struck by the pain, anguish, shame, and self-loathing of the creature.

The Tolpak Sinks worked quickly, drawing the agonizing fire up their arms and dissipating it out into space.

Admiral Singh felt the relief that came to the creature, felt it thanking the Tolpak Sinks for their kindness, and felt it reach out to her for mercy.

Admiral Singh didn’t have to tell Hakagawa to fire because all of them were connected.

0083. Kali – Behind the Black Kirtan

The mysterious band or musician, Kali, returns with their first full-length, Behind the Black Kirtan.

For those of you who missed their earlier EP, Dark Pervader, Kali is a black metal band that plays Indian raga — or vice versa — creating a new genre called black raga. And it’s everything it sounds like.

The instruments/musician/s are: electric sitar played by Khadga, electric tanpura played by Trishul, and tabla played by Kapala. We don’t know if this is one musician or many, but, what we do know, is that on BtBK they’ve either added another member, Sira, or have expanded their already prodigious talent or talents to include kirtan singing.

Kirtan, for those not in the know, is a form of devotional chanting or singing best popularized in the west by Grammy Award-winning artist, Krishna Das. To imagine their music, think of a demonic Ravi Shankar playing a higher pitched, sped up, and buzzier sitar that’s attempting to escape the gravity of an oddly bass-like tanpura droning behind it like a black vortex sucking sound down into its abyss as a devil-whipped tabla skips over the frantic waves of the maelstrom firing desperate blast beats to stay afloat while the siren-esque singer ranges over it all from a deep dirge to a shrill, seagull-like squawk.

The album is one track and clocks in at 51 minutes — 51 being a number sacred to the dark goddess. It begins with the birth cry of a child and ends with the screams of the dying.

Listen, and let the maya of your mind be annihilated.

0084. Adulting

God walked back to the Tree with his head low.

“How’d it go?” Goddess asked, hugging him.

“As well as expected, I guess,” God said, resting his head on her breast.

“I really didn’t want them to leave.”

“I know. But they’ll be fine. They know they’re loved.”

“I don’t know. I was really hard on them and shamed them severely,” he said, lifting his head and looking at her. “I wonder how they’re taking it.”

“We talked about this,” she said, holding him at arm’s-length. “We agreed that when they were ready, we’d send them out into the world to experience it, so that when they came back, they’d know how special it is here.”

“I know, I know. You’re right. But I cursed my own children,” he said, his brow furrowing with concern.

“Tell me exactly what you said. I know how you like to go off script.”

“I told them that they disobeyed us by eating the fruit of the Tree, that they were now like us, and had to leave to make their way in the world without our help.”

“And the curse?”

“Exactly like we discussed: sowing and harvesting their own food, clothing and sheltering themselves, having babies.”

“Did you use the word ‘work’?”

“Of course. That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? For them to work their way back here.”

“It is. We need them to gain experience and perspective, to become responsible adults, before coming back home.”

“Adulting.”

“Exactly. Adulting. Our parents did the same to us.”

“I know. I remember.”

0085. Memory Dump

For as long as he could remember, Warren had a good memory and could always retrieve memories quickly and efficiently. And because his mind worked without difficulty, he never paid it any mind.

As he aged though, he found that he had to dig around deeper and longer. His recall wasn’t what it was and it began worrying him. Whenever he came up short, he’d joke that he must’ve made a memory dump at the Memory Dump.

When Warren became an old man, he stopped paying attention to most things. To him, almost everything he heard and saw was junk. So, everyday he made a memory dump at the Memory Dump.

Now, whenever someone asked him to remember something, he’d say that he had to go to the Memory Dump to retrieve it. But after picking through piles of trash, he’d forget what he was looking for and would wander around lost in the maze of memories.

Whenever he managed to find his way out, he carried with him the last memory he found. But when he compared it to the present, the faces and places never seemed to fit. Confused, he’d bring it back to the Memory Dump and begin searching again.

One day, after bringing out a memory and failing to make it fit, he tried to bring it back to the — what was it? He didn’t know and couldn’t remember.

Without a past to return to or a future to look forward to, Warren now sits with his one memory, in a present without beginning or end.

0086. The Boogieman

Ritchie picked his nose and made a ball out of his snots. He added to it day after day, and it quickly grew from the size of a pea to the size of a peach.

One day, his parents found it and demanded he throw the disgusting thing away.

Ritchie complied; but that night, he picked his nose again and began making another.

In order to prevent his parents from finding it, he hid it under his pillow when he went to sleep.

When he woke the next day, he found his snotball had been replaced with cash. Ritchie’s eyes flashed dollar signs as he picked up the clean hundred dollar bills and began counting them.

Ritchie wanted to know who was leaving the money, so he made another snotball, put it under his pillow that night, and pretended to sleep.

In the middle of the night, he found an ugly little man with his hand under his pillow.

Ritchie asked him who he was and why he was exchanging snotballs for money.

“I’m the boogieman,” he said. “And I live under kids’ beds. My job is to collect their boogers at night. But most live in fright and never leave me any boogers. But you, you’re the first, and since I get the same annual funding as the tooth fairy, I’m sitting on piles of cash. And because no one else leaves me their boogers, I’m giving it all to you.”

Ritchie left snotballs under his pillow every night, and soon after became the richest kid in the world.

0087. The Roads Not Taken

After arguing with Elinor, Robert went for a walk. He felt like he was being boxed in, like he was ignoring his calling, like he was going to explode. Farm, family, and work were becoming too much for him. And after this last fight, he felt like he needed some fresh air to clear his head.

Every morning when he got up to write his poems, he felt energized and alive, but at night, after the long labors of the day, he felt drained and dead.

As he walked south, he thought about all the possible roads he could take to make him the great poet he knew he was. Was it possible for a man to follow his muse? If so, where would he go and how would he support his family?

As options came to him, he followed the roads as far as he could until all their potential futures bled together in confusion.

How did anyone know what choices to make? What was right and what was wrong? Perhaps the problem was choice itself. Perhaps he should decide by flipping a coin. Or perhaps the right road was taking no road at all and he should stay and stick it out.

As Robert searched his pockets for a coin, he came to a fork in the road. Refusing to make a decision, he sat down and waited for a decision to make him.

When Robert returned home at midnight, he woke Elinor and told her that he was selling the farm and moving the family to England.

0088. Irony

With a smirk and shrug, I added, “Well, you know what they say: It takes a village to raise an idiot,” and took a slow sip of whiskey and surveyed the faces of the group over my glass.

Everyone laughed except for him.

I smiled inwardly. He knew I was talking about him without talking about him. I wondered how far I could push it.

As the laughter faded, I chanced it by asking, “And have you ever noticed this about idiots: Because of their tiny minds and limited intellect, they can’t conceive that there are people in the world smarter than them.”

Everyone laughed again and nodded in agreement.

“Are you talking about me?” he asked boldly.

The laughter died instantly.

“You? Why no,” I said, feigning ignorance. “Why would I be talking about you?”

“Because it sounds like you are,” he said, handing off his drink and stepping forward.

“Well, rest assured, my friend, I am not.”

He looked me up and down. “Yes, you are. You’re one of those wise guys who likes to take cracks at people because you think you’re smarter than them.”

“Me?” I asked nervously, looking around for support. “Not at all. I was merely being ironic.”

“Ironic?” he said, shaking his head and tightening his fist. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, if that's what you think, then you shouldn't be thinking,” I said, my tongue faster than my eye.

Before I could react, he closed the gap between us and threw a straight jab into my mouth and my blood tasted irony.

0089. The Outside Inside

From the old bench where I sit, I see the leafless limbs of trees crown the hill’s high horizon. Beneath the dull cranial vault of heaven, the bonecolored bowl of sky, a bird flits like an electric impulse, a neurotransmitter, from dendritic branch to waiting axon.

My skull. My brain. Inside out. The sky. The trees. Outside in. The world outside me is the world inside me, is now the world inside you, twice removed.

And though you’re reading about it here, you’re not seeing it as I’m seeing it now. And even though you may have seen something similar, you haven’t seen this, are not seeing this, here with me now, by my side, with our breath visible before us, and the chill creeping into our hands and bones. You’re not seeing this sloping hill of barren trees and sky with real eyes. You’re not here warm beside me.

Do you see how time and space creeps between us, separating us, pushing us all further into fiction? Do you see how this medium captures it? Captures us? We’re all fading shadows, brief awarenesses, beneath a barren winter sun. To what or whom shall we cling?

What, other than light, can we hold onto in the unendurable dark?

The heat of our bodies pushes back the cold, the heat of love, the same.

Light and heat, these are the primary elements of life. The cold is all around us, a vacuum drawing everything into night. I write this and you read it, and for a moment, I alight inside you.

0090. The Punctum Deum

Since everywhere is wherever I am, and because I can see everything everywhere from wherever I am, then wherever I am is every place and every point, as well as no place and no point. And this God Point is the aleph and the tav, the alpha and the omega, of omniscience and omnescience.

And though at first I can only see whatever makes itself available to me to see, and whatever makes itself available to me to see, I can only ever see as me, I can look right through the surface and pierce the veil whenever I transfix myself on that Point of Points. And once through, I cannever look away, even when I shut my eyes, even when I’m fast asleep, because once there, all universal currents pass through me; and I am what was, what is, and will be. In that place, you becomes me.

And I am. And I am that I am. And I am that I am that I am.

There is nowhere It and I am not. Coexistent and coextensive, We are here, there, and everywhere, at once. There’s no escaping Us no matter where or when we are.

So, sit back, relax, and breathe, because everything here turns on the breath, that simple reflex of air. The Universe breathes you and me into and out of being in all the forms It ever takes. Not us as us, but us as Us. Here, at this Point, we end where we begin.

All points are one Point and that Point is God .

0091. The Oracle of Camarina

In Siracusa, King Pyrrhus wandered through the remains of his army.

It was a bitter sight to behold.

After his campaign, none of his companions and commanders survived to help guide him. He needed advice. The Oracle at Delphi told him to start the war, perhaps another oracle could tell him how to end it.

The Sicilians knew of one in the ruins of Camarina and guided him there.

The oracle sat amidst the rubble of an ancient city stoking a fire.

Pyrrhus sat and asked his question.

“Centuries ago,” the oracle began, “my ancestor foretold the doom of Camarina. At the time, a plague laid siege to the city. The citizens blamed the marsh and sought to drain it. My ancestor warned them against this action, but they wouldn’t listen. They drained it, and exchanged one malady for another. The plague ended, but with the marsh gone, their flank was now open to invasion. Shortly after, Carthage attacked, slaughtered the citizens, and razed the city. The fire I’m stoking here is the fire from the burning city, kept alive down generations to remind us of this mistake.”

Pyrrhus understood her meaning, but he wouldn’t give up his assault on Rome.

“Then go forth and persist, fool. For beyond the Wastes of Camarina lies the Slough of Despond. Beyond the Slough of Despond lies the Sea of Despair, where your Ship of Resolve will sink. Never will you sail across the Ocean of Bliss, whose sweet waters lap the pure sands of the Promised Land where the Eternal City lies.”

0092. He Sat So Still, He Disappeared

Grandpa Gregory wanted to play a trick on his family for ignoring him all day.

So, when dinnertime came, he sat so still, he disappeared.

His daughter sent her daughter to get him and bring him to the table, but when she arrived, she couldn’t see him sitting there.

“He’s not here,” she yelled to her mom.

“Dad?” his daughter called, looking around the room. “Where are you hiding?”

Grandpa Gregory said nothing.

“That’s strange,” his daughter said. “Come on, let’s look for him.”

They ran around the house, going upstairs and downstairs, outside and inside, calling in that singsong way people call when looking for someone, “Dad?” “Grandpa?” “Grandpa Gregory, where are you? Come out if you can hear me.”

Grandpa Gregory sat in his chair and watched them with amusement.

“I checked his bedroom.” “I checked the den.” “I checked the bathroom.” “I checked the garage.” “I checked the basement.” “I checked the yard.” “I checked the attic.” “I checked the closets,” each of them said, listing the places they had searched.

“Where could he have gone?” “Who was the last to see him?” “Was he abducted?” they asked each other, frustrated.

Everyone shrugged or didn’t know.

“Should we call the neighbors?” “Should we call the police?”

Everyone shrugged or didn’t know.

“He has to be here,” his daughter said. “Where could he have gone?

And who was watching him last?”

Everyone began bickering and blaming each other.

Grandpa Gregory knew it was time to end his trick. So, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

0093. Rothko

Years ago, I was walking through my local Borders bookstore when I caught, out of the corner of my eye, a glimpse of the cover of Essential Modern Art. I continued walking past it, but was pulled back to the stack of discounted books to have a closer look.

It was the reddish-orange color that had caught my eye. Studying the painting, I noticed how it corresponded to the loose gray cartouche above it and how they both balanced perfectly on the field of faded yellow. It looked ancient, but was, as the title said, modern. I didn’t know what, or who, I was looking at. So, I opened the book and searched the dust jacket for a name and title. It was: Untitled, 1953 by Mark Rothko.

I took an art history class in high school with Mrs. Katz. I remember being in the library with her running through slides of paintings, but I don’t remember seeing a Rothko. Who knows, maybe one was there, and I missed it as I daydreamed and doodled.

Regardless, I bought the book.

When I got home, I cut the picture out, pinned it to my wall, and stared at it for hours from my bed.

I purchased more books to see more of Rothko’s paintings, read Dore Ashton’s account of his life, and visited M.o.M.A. to see them in person.

Untitled, 1968 was like staring through a window into a warm, glowing soul.

His paintings taught me that colors could convey the ineffable before they filled the mind and mouth with words.

0094. The Shadowman

“Yeah, he’s harmless. Or at least we think he is. Maybe one night he’s gonna kill us all in our sleep. But so far, he hasn’t done anything except put on his nightly show.

“At first, he scared the living shit out of us. I remember the girls telling me, ‘Daddy, daddy, there’s a shadowman in the house.’ At first, I was like, ‘It’s your overactive imaginations, my darlings,’ and to my wife, I was like, ‘What’re they smoking?’

“But let me tell you, man, when I first saw him — holy shit! I mean, step back Jack, I almost jumped out of my socks. And that’s why I call him Step Back Jack. My wife calls him You Again, because he comes out every night. That’s how used to him we are now. It’s crazy.

“But the girls, they call him the Shadowman because he’s made out of shadows or whatever — I don’t know. He just appears on the walls.

“He does this weird bendy thing with his body. He can fold his arms and legs in the wrong direction. He turns his neck at crazy angles. But the strangest, and by far my most favorite, thing is when he folds in half sideways at the waist. It’s positively creepy.

“The girls made up this cute song they used to sing to him:

The Shadowman is a scary man.

He bends at angles that no man can.

“But honestly, he does the same thing every night. He’s like a onetrick pony, and, well, we’re all a little over him now.”

0095. The Immortality of Gilgamesh

When Gilgamesh’s friend Enkidu died, Gilgamesh learned to fear death.

Knowing I was immortal, he came to me hoping to gain immortality, but immortality was given to me by the gods, and was not in my power to give.

Not wanting his journey to be in vain, I gave him a challenge that I knew he couldn’t pass. I told him that if he wanted to conquer death, he had to first conquer sleep.

Gilgamesh stayed awake for as long as he could, but eventually, he fell asleep.

When he woke, he was furious that he had failed, and immediately demanded I give him another challenge.

I told him that if he couldn’t conquer sleep, he couldn’t conquer death.

He became sullen.

I suggested that he tell me his story so that I may share it with future generations.

Gilgamesh thought the idea ridiculous, but I explained that even though his body died, he would live on with Enkidu in his story.

He agreed if it meant he and Enkidu would be together forever.

After he told me his story, I told him that his famous friendship might become the basis for another famous friendship in some story in a future far, far away. But he didn’t care; he only cared about being with Enkidu forever.

My wife took pity on him, and, as he left, told him about a plant of immortality that grew on the bottom of the ocean. On his way back to Uruk, he retrieved it, but the gods sent a snake and stole it back.

0096. Nightmare Chimeraquarium

I entered a room lined with fish tanks stacked four high on metal stands and eerily lit by the lights in their covers. As I walked through the display and peered into the various tanks, I noticed that there were three kinds.

The first type of tank was filled with murky water fouled with unrecognizable detritus and the wispy tentacles of strange aquatic plants.

The only fish I came close to seeing was in a tank of turbid water, where a scaly, eel-like body brushed up against the glass before disappearing back into the murk. Most tanks of this type were filled with filthy brown or black water, though several tanks glowed a mottled mint green.

The second type of tank was filled with nightmare fish of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions, as if the alien horrors of the ocean abyss were dredged up and deposited within them. Some tanks were filled so near to bursting that the fish were pressed tight against the glass, coiling and writhing against each other, their tanks near empty of water.

The third type of tank was filled with clear water and conspicuously absent of fish. The absence suggested the fish that was once there, and my mind conjured images of them, mostly in the shape of large lionfishes. But thinking I might be missing something, I studied the rocks and pebbles on the bottom of one of the tanks thinking that I might find some flatfish camouflaged there. But no matter how long I searched, there were never any fish to be found.

0097. Demons

The man went on beating him night and day. The abuse never stopped.

The boy never knew why it was happening; he only knew that it was.

The boy begged the old man to protect him from the man’s abuse, but the old man said nothing and shamefully cowered in a corner.

As the boy’s skin thickened and his heart hardened, something black built up inside him, growing stronger within him as he grew into a young man. It grew with each lashing he took, grew with each bruise on his body.

The beatings slowed when the old man died. As his tormentor aged, his rage receded, and the effects of the lashing diminished on the young man.

As this happened, the young man began insulting the man, demanding he take up the lash and beat him like he used to. The man halfheartedly beat the unflinching young man, but after a time, the man no longer dared lift the lash.

It was then that the young man took the lash and got his revenge on the man by savagely beating him until the man begged him for mercy and apologized for the sins of his past.

“You can't create a demon and ask it for mercy,” the young man screamed, beating the man until he passed out.

The beatings continued as the young man became the man and the man became the old man. But despite the beatings he dispensed, the man’s rage remained inexhaustible.

One day, when a boy appeared, the man mercilessly turned his lash on him.

0098. Arthur vs. Charlemagne

Arthur found himself standing in a field of white, holding Excalibur, with the Knights of the Round Table at his back. Across from them, a king stood next to a knight holding a large horn. Behind them stood another eleven in various dress with their weapons drawn.

Charlemagne didn’t recognize the king or the twelve knights, but by their gleaming armor, swords, and shields, they seemed worthy foes. Still, he had to test the merit of their fighting spirit. He signaled to Roland, who raised his oliphant horn to his lips and blew with all his might.

The blast shook Arthur and the Knights, who held their ground, pressing mailed fists to their naked ears. When the sound subsided, Arthur pointed Excalibur at Charlemagne and commanded the Knights to charge.

Charlemagne was impressed. These were worthy foes, indeed. He pointed Joyeuse at Arthur and commanded his Paladins to charge.

Arthur and Charlemagne met, exchanging tremendous blows with their legendary blades as Roland swung Durendal at Galahad, who blocked with his shield and countered like lightning. Lancelot and Ganelon struck and parried. Gawain fought Fierabras as Percival squared off with Oliver.

Bors engaged Ogier the Dane, as Bedivere sparred Otuel. Bedivere’s brother, Lucan, fought the wily Archbishop Turpin, as Sagramore stood toe-to-toe with Rinaldo. Tristan dodged the blows of Astolpho, as Yvain attacked Florismart. Kay thrust at Namo, as Ector defended against Guy de Bourgogne.

The battle went on for hours with no side gaining ground.

Arthur and Charlemagne signaled to their men to stop, removed their gloves, and shook hands.

0099. Incarcerated

“Your honor, if I may address you and the court one last time to say that this is a grave miscarriage of justice. In order for me to travel beyond my body, I can’t be in my body. If I’m not in my body, I can’t take care of things in this world. I can’t be in both places at once. To be there, means not being here.

“Being out of my body doesn’t mean being out of my mind. It simply means I’m no longer here. And when I’m no longer here, I have to neglect the things of this world. I have to give this up for that. I willingly make the exchange. The price I pay is worth it.

“But, with that said, I understand there are rules here. I understand there are laws. Just remember, I’m going to other worlds where our laws don’t exist, and I’m seeing things never seen before by human eyes.

“When I leave my body, my subjectivity gains objectivity on this world. I see its shortcomings and limitations. That’s why, when I return, I can offer another vision, another way of being.

“I know you don’t believe me; you don’t have to. But please, don’t penalize me for going beyond the borders of the body and the world we know. What I’m doing should be supported and encouraged. This witch hunt —” “Bailiff!” the judge called, slamming the gavel over and over. “Remove this man from my court.”

“Your honor, surely you understand from everything I’ve said, that I can’t be incarcerated.”

0100. The Tusk of Ganesha

When I visited Niall and Lianne in San Diego a few years ago, I gave them a tarot reading with my Rider-Waite deck. They said they’d like to own their own deck; I told them that if they took me to a store, I would gladly buy one for them.

The next day, we went to a shop they frequented and I bought them one. When I handed Niall the bag, Lianne handed me a bag to say thanks.

I opened it and inside was a small statue of Ganesha.

When I returned to New York, I placed the figure on my puja table along with a foldout of six saints I had picked up with Niall at Yogananda’s gardens. I lit some incense and welcomed everyone home.

One night, when passing my puja, I noticed that Ganesha was missing. I looked around the puja and the floor beneath, but couldn’t find him. The following night, I found him next to the cremains of my dogs that I keep under the table.

When I picked him up, I noticed the tusk he held in his upper left hand was missing. I set him back in place and searched for the tusk, hoping to find it and glue it back on, but the tusk was nowhere to be found.

I told Niall about this the next time we talked, and he reminded me that Ganesha broke off his tusk to write the Mahabharata. Niall found this occurrence curious and wondered if perhaps the wise god had secretly supplied it to me.

About A Thousand Stories Reader, I wanted you to know that I started writing this book as a collection of science fiction, slipstream, and fantasy stories with some horror, humor, and romance mixed in. But as the book and I deepened our dialogue, we realized that the format was perfect for pretty much anything. This makes the book impossible to categorize because it now includes: abstracts, acrostics, album reviews, alternative histories, analyses, anatomies, aphorisms, artworks, apotheoses, autobiographies, autozoëographies, biographies, blessings, board games, book reviews, business ideas, calendars, catalogs, chronicles, codes, color themes, comic skits, comics, commentaries, confessions, constrained writings, curses, designs, dialogues, dreams, economic commentaries, etymologies, eulogies, examples, exegeses, experiences, explanations, exposés, fairy tales, fake album reviews, fashion critiques, films, filmographies, forewords, formulas, F.A.Q.s, grammars, guides, hagiographies, histories, instructions, interviews, introductions, inventions, jokes, journal entries, legends, lessons, letters, letters to the editor, lists, lists, and more lists, lyrics, magic spells, mantras, manuals, marquees, maxims, memento moris, memories, menus, messages, metacommentaries, metafictions, metaphysics, monologues, morality tales, mottoes, musings, mysteries, mythologies, notes, oaths, observations, oracles, orders, parables, performances, philosophies, phone calls, pitches, plays, plots, poems, polemics, political commentaries, prayers, predictions, products, product histories, projects, propositions, prose poems, provenances, P.S.A.s, puns, reflections, religious commentaries, reminiscences, reports, requirements, revelations, routines, rubrics, ruminations, rules, sayings, scripts, shows, sketches, social commentaries, songs, strategies, studies, tarot readings, tasting notes, theories, tour guides, transcripts, transmissions, trialogues, trial logs, urban legends, utoposcales, visualizations, websites, westerns, wishes, word plays, and word salads. Essentially, it’s a book that’s a composite of me, and the time and place in which it was written.

Hope you enjoy.

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