First Helping: Grandpa's Other Eye

The room wasn’t dark. Grandfather always had a light on, as if he was afraid of the dark. Timmy didn’t like having to sit with grandpa, since he smelled strange and was so old he wet the bed. Timmy didn’t anymore, and didn’t understand why no one was angry grandpa did. He felt that, at the very least, it deserved a spanking. He had been spanked over it often enough, and seem mommy spank daddy with words over other things.
      But grandpa was old and maybe no one spanked old people. Or maybe they went wrinkly from too much spanking; Timmy didn’t know, and people tended to think he was joking when he asked questions like that. Timmy didn’t understand how a question could be a joke; why’s were important.
      “Your mother says you ask too man questions,” Grandpa said, breaking the silence of an hour in his hoarse voice, like a crow in a room of men. “Do you?”
      “Mommy says you don’t talk much,” Timmy said, wary. Mommy had told him not to talk to strangers, and while Grandpa might not be one, he was weird. Which, Timmy gathered, was the same thing as strange. Which meant all strangers were weird. Daddy hadn’t agreed, and just said that Timmy was weird, which just confused things. “Why don’t you talk much?”
      “Why should I?”
      Timmy thought about that, gnawing on a fingernail. “Because you have to ask questions to learn stuff?” he offered.
      Grandpa laughed his strange laugh mommy called a death rattle. “You don’t learn things by asking questions, boy. You learn them by finding out answers.”
      Timmy switched fingernails. “That sounds stupid.”
      “Do you know why the sky is blue?”
      “No. Why?”
      “Because I piss on the clouds every night, and the rising sun changes the colour to blue,” grandpa snapped.
      “You said piss!”
      “And?”
      “Mommy washed my mouth out with soap for that two months ago,” Timmy said.
      “The advantage of being old,” Grandpa said, “is saying whatever you want.”
      “But you don’t say much.”
      “The disadvantage is no one listens.”
      “So you’re just like a kid. Except old.”
      “Or mad. No one listens to the mad, boy, even when they are right.”
      Timmy considered that with the gravity of childhood. “Like the evangelists on TV? Mommy says they are all mad and stuff. She says it’s like foaming at the mouth.”
      “Heh. Madness for profit is different.” Grandpa looked over from the bed, staring at Timmy from his good eye. “Do you know how I lost my other eye, Timmy?”
      “Mommy said you lost it in the war. I asked her.”
      “And was the answer she told you true?”
      “She thought so,” Timmy said slowly, gnawing on his lower lip. “She said granny married you because you looked dashing.”
      “She did, boy. But I lied to her. I never fought in the war. Real heroes don’t fight in wars. They prevent them.”
      “That sounds kinda silly. Who’d know if you stopped a war?”
      “No one, most of the time. It’s not something done for glory; if you do the right thing because it is right, no matter who stands against you .... all you’ve done is the right thing. It doesn’t make you better than other people. Are you smart, Timmy?”
      “Mommy think so.”
      “Heh. All mothers think that. What do you think boy?”
      “I get beat up at school a lot, so I guess so.”
      “You guess? Are you stupid?”
      “No!” Timmy stood, barely aware he’d done it.
      “Sit down.” The voice was still hoarse, but somehow scary.
      He did so, the command registering before he had time to think about it. “Daddy never talks like that,” he said.
      “So are you smart?”
      “I gu - yes.”
      “Stupid! Smart and stupid aren’t opposing poles, boy. Everyone is stupid about some things, smart about others. being smarter than other people doesn’t make you better than they are. If you want to be better, boy, help them. It’s why I became a diplomat.”
      “It’s not because you’re good at lying?” Timmy demanded, stung.
      Grandpa laughed. “A diplomat never lies. We are just selective with the truth. And here is one for you, boy: nothing makes up for that kind of lie I told your grandmother. But it was worth it.”
      Later, Mommy asked Timmy why he’d horrified grandma by asking for his false eye after he’d died, and all Timmy would tell her was that he wanted something true of someone. The answer didn’t worry her until much later.
      Then he asked Mommy about sex, and all she said was lies about men and woman and not the simple, pure truth of the stork. Timmy wondered if he would make a good diplomat, and if he loved his grandfather, and if it was possible to love anyone for who they really are. It was not the kind of thought he used to have, but he had an eye in his pocket now, tough he never used it in show and tell.

Poets Have Been Mysteriously Silent On The Subject of Urinal Cakes

Poets Have Been Mysteriously Silent On The Subject of Urinal Cakes
(December 2004)

Yesterday I baked a urinal cake
I didn't mean it (I thought I had to ----)
And I never thought they'd be worth a lot.
But everyone liked my cake and got psyched
That I'd made such food telling the truth's rude
(And would get me beat) So my weary feet
And I, in public washrooms, feeling sick
From the smells, are forced to bake more, of course.
Their hunger won't sate and so I must bake
More urinal treats, which is no mean feat
And then I pause to think: the gig needs a drink.
An idea comes, but I'm not that dumb
Or so I tell myself and yet I lie.

A Letter

Dear Edna,

I know I haven't wrote you a letter in two years, but I must plead your indulgence. There was an uprising by the peasants, according to Ronnie, though why birds would be angry with him I have no idea. I sent you three letters last year, but I assume they did not get through since I did not get a reply. I hope everything is well with your Connie and her children. It is a shame about Cathal, but wars always use up our young.

I've been lucky, since Ronnie is In Charge and doesn't have to lead men into battle here. I commented on the loyalty of the men last night, and he made a joke about having poisoned their babies and having the only antidote - he is such a card, even with the responsibilities of Power upon him.

As I told you last time, he took over after the death of Lord Ishin and is keeping the Lord's son safe, in a Tower. I've never been in the tower, because security is very strict: I know Ronnie trust me, of course, but I worry for the poor child sometimes even if my Ronnie does have his best interests at heart. (I do hope the boy can't see the heads of the traitors Ronnie's men insist on mounting on the walls to feed the crows. I've told him it is Unhealthy, but he insists it keeps Morale up.)

Some of the other Lords don't seem to like Ronnie, because one of them tried to kill him at dinner last week! I swear, some people just can't take a joke - it's not my Ronnie would actually burn down a village and salt the earth. My son is the salt OF the earth, not the kind of person to ruin the land. I must confess, though, darling Edna, that I am worried a little.

He's been yelling at people a lot more lately, and once he even raised his voice to me! I didn't give him a smack upside the skull because he looked awfully fierce, as if he had his father's temper. Besides, it would not be good for his Image, and I do worry about him so. I know he hasn't been eating enough lately, and with all this talk about secret heirs to the throne you'd think no one believed Isin's son was up in the tower.

Sometimes I just don't understand people at all, old friend. If your Darryl is still looking for a job, we have opening with the palace staff. They keep leaving ,the Gods only know why! Ronnie has assumed me we have an excellent retirement plan and that the dungeons are soundproofed. he's so silly sometimes, trying to act all grownup around his mother.

Oh, dear. He's threatening to have his men gut one of the servants like a fish again. I swear, just because the doctor said he can't eat fish is no reason to act like a fool! A mother's work is never done.

Yours in peace,

Gayle.

The Wife

They ask why I married her
Hagalena-faced, eyes that do not
Turn to stone, but can't
Both see me at once. I told them,
Saying, drunk: ugly women
Are better, when you come home.
Always waiting, ready,
Eager to please, doing anything
To keep us, terrified,
Knowing so much of loneliness
That they will never leave us.

Wizard's bane

“The king wants what?” The old man’s voice was filled with a terrible thunder, the very air in the room quivering.
      “A resume,” the apprentice muttered. “They have mad quite a few applicants for chief wizard, master, and we are but one of them.”
      “I am Mardos the magnificent! Mardos the waker of Eldrun, who broke the back of the dragon of Bishalman. My name is known across the seventeen kingdoms!”
      “But, my master, we aren’t IN the seventeen kingdoms anymore.” The apprentice hesitated, then plunged forward like a lemming leaping into a sea, or a princess towards a shoe sale. “You remember? The taxes issue.”
      “A wizard of my stature does not need to pay taxes. Paying taxes is for the little people.” There was a pause fraught with menace, though how this is achieved is best left to the imagination of the reader. The best comparison is the pause between the twisting of a face and the actual breaking of wind, not that a wizard would stoop to such things. “Are you snickering, Harley?”
      “No, master.”
      “Good. Then why does a mere king require a resume? I could provide ample evidence of my -- you ARE snickering, aren’t you?”
      “Forgive me master!”
      “OUT WITH IT!” There was a pause. “I did not mean, apprentice, for you to collapse on the ground laughing. Explain yourself!”
      “Master, your stature has increased since we had to flee, due to the time in the cloud kingdoms and the pastries and --”
      “I am aware of this,” the wizard said, his voice low and deep.
      “Yes, master, well -- the king’s treasurer, master, wonders at the cost of you.”
      “The cost?”
      “To - feed, master. So they want a resume, for proof you are worth that, ah, cost.” Harley the apprentice shivered. “There was a famine recently, and the kingdom has not recovered.”
      “I am merely plump,” the wizard said.
      “I know master, but you need the resume and --”
      “Do they banish plump grandmothers from their kingdom?” Madros bellowed. “I think not! A fat bearded wizard is a tradition! Even though I am not fat.”
      “A resume is useful, though. You made me submit one to you, master.”
      “You put down that you were not sure if your frog was your familiar or was the other way around,” the wizard noted.
      “It’s still under debate,” Harley said. “But, master, you could just list such things, as I did. When did you take the vision quest for a familiar?”
      “When I was six.”
      “Did your familiar die?”
      “No.” The wizard paced the room, not looking over.
      “Then --”
      “I failed.”
      “Master?”
      “I ended up with a rock. I cast the spell at the end of the course and came back with a rock.”
      “So, you - er - you skipped the basics?” Harley said desperately.
      Mardos looked over, then sighed. “Put that down, if you wish. Why do you think you do the chores with magic?”
      “Because you have more important --”
      “Apprentice!”
      “Because you ate fat and lazy.”
      “You fail as a wizard, then.”
      Harley licked his lips. “How?” he managed.
      “A wizard has to train himself to see the obvious. The obvious is: I do not do those spells because I cannot. Float a castle? Simple. Light up the sky? Easy. Mend a shirt? I’d need thread.”
      “Oh.”
      “Quite.”
      “You’ve had many apprentices, then?”
      The wizard chuckled. “Of course. They graduated when they guessed -- this is not an option this time. The king needs a resume,” he said, his countenance darkening from more than just constipation.
      “We could lie?”
      “A wizard does not lie: words are the heart of magic, language the --”
      “I know.” Harley held up a hand, trying to get it to stop trembling. “I know: but I am not a wizard. I am only an apprentice.”
      Mardos the magnificent was silent for several moments. “I see. Why did you want to become a wizard, boy?”
      “Master?”
      “You interrupted me.”
      “I - yes, master. This is your price?”
      “Without such, things would not have value. Every action has an equal one: this is the nature of magic and of eating beans as well. Answer.”
      “The ladies like a man in robes, master. Magic has allure to it. I am not handsome master. I am not brilliant. I have a way with words, for lying, but all men have that. So I needed something to attract a woman for more than an evenings coin.”
      The wizard was silent for a few moments. “You decided to learn the great Art so that you could have sex with women?” he said finally.
      “Yes, master.”
      “I think we will exclude this from the cover letter.”
      “Master?”
      “We both have things to hide now.” The wizard sat down in a chair. “We give given him our resume, with your cover letter. I want larger chairs than this, however. And we will give a demonstration of our magic - if they want it or not.”
      Harley grinned. “To scare the king out of charging taxes, master?”
      “A wizard must maintain dignity. And robes to accommodate that,” Mardos said mildly. “There is also the likelihood of sex, apprentice, since people are attracted to power. You do not need to write that down.
      “Objective: I, Mardos the magnificent, and my apprentice Harley, seek your employ as wizards of the court,” the wizard began as the apprentice wrote quickly, separating fact from fancy and adding in fiction where needed.
      After the resume was done, he added a basic charm so that no one would contact their references.

Reuters headline: "Mohammed says responsible for 9/11 attacks"

<alcar> Oh, fun headline..
<alcar> "Mohammed says responsible for 9/11 attacks"
* alcar sees additional ones: "Jevovah denies responsibility. Other prophets do ritual shunning."
<OnyxFlame> lol
<OnyxFlame> "Buddha not available for comment." :P
* alcar nods. "Joseph Smith stands outside building, wondering if he is invited as a prophet or not."
<Kayara> haha
<alcar> "Angel Gabriel unavailable for comment."

Just Working

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R. Anon

“My first time was with a cat,” Craig said into the circle of cheap folding chairs, cigarette smoke hissing out to the last word. “I had to work my way up to people. It’s easier, to start with animals. Simpler.
     “Cats, though. Cats are hard. I had trouble finding the right moment, at first.” He took another drag, looking up to steady the florescent lights on the ceiling above their heads. “I didn’t even start with a pet of my own, just some cat almost as good as roadkill. But it still worked, still happened. After that, there was no turning back.”
     “Well said, “Bob said. “Everyone, give Craig a hand.”
     A few half-hearted golf claps filled the stagnant air.
     “We have a a new member here today,” Bob added, as if the filling of the last chair hadn’t been obvious. “Everyone, this is Cheryl.”
     “HI Cheryl,” everyone said.
     “Before we begin on today’s progress reports, perhaps you can tell us the first time you raised the dead?” Bob said.
     Cheryl was a too-thin quiet girl, all goth without makeup, her face pale with dark hair hanging down to her waist. “I just find it hard to believe,” she said in a voice made rough by years of drinking.”
     Craig laughed sharply. “Sorry, not at you. I get it, most of us do. It’s not often you find anonymous AA style things for raising the dead. It’s a horrible habit, though: where do you stop, once you start?”
     “Who dies that doesn’t deserve to live?” Bob said smoothly into the silence. “That is the question that haunts our waking hours, and most of our sleeping ones. But first, who brought the cookies?”

Making Art

Mendril Caroway had been voted the High Protector the city by the computers under the earth, old and strange and unfathomable in their ways. He’d never been important - never wanted to be, truth be told - but they had given him the post, and technology to go along with it: with the gloves, he could create anything, change anything into anything else. It was a terrible burden, and his family has drifted away from him, as they had predicated.
      A servant of the great city, they felt, should have nothing limiting him in his duties. No ties, no commitments. Only the people, and the computers. He didn’t know what he thought about that, tried as often as he could not to, but then some tourist had ended up leaving the quarantined zone and was, currently, in the cells.
      “Report,” he said crisply to the two guards who smelled of stale sweat. The third, his security chief, smiled at him with eyes that were far too bright in her face.
      “Omalu.”
      Mendril stopped and looked over. “Omalu?”
      “The - ah - it claims to come from there.”
      “And this is?” he snapped. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to some nice relaxing drugs and not having to order any more deaths or other things tgo keep the computer’s peace.. Something in her smile told him it wasn’t going to happen.
      “The subjects name is Ililiiqi. Ki, for short. As near as I can tell, it is from Omalu,” she said.
      “It again?”
      “Neuter, sir. Probably some punishment, really, among some barbarian freakworld thing,” the one guard opined.
      Desiree ignored it, smiling at Mendril for a few moments longer. “Carl is right: the creature is neuter, and a ghost.”
      “A ghost.”
      “Currently it is in the cell because we brought in a simple matter creator set to make dishes,” she said dryly. “Otherwise it’d be wandering through people’s homes and confusing many more.”
      Mendril sighed, following her down the hallway and entering the cell she’d chosen, wondering what kind of joke he was the butt of this time.

The creature in the room looked human, at first glance. Thin and tall, with pale hair and bright eyes, it looked up curiously; if not for the fact that the High Protector could see right through it, he’d have thought it was a person. Hands were pulling things out, phase shifting them from the inside of the device to the floor beside it where it sat cross-legged, grinning from ear to ear.
      Mendril moved around slowly, studying the creature. It had an extra set of thumbs, and was as androgynous as most dolls, disturbingly so. He coughed lightly, finally, and it looked up.
      “Hello,” the voice said, though its mouth hadn’t moved.
      Mendril froze, throwing up protections in his mind. “Hello.”
      “I fixed the dishes,” the voice said proudly, as loud as before even though the meditative protections around his own thoughts.
      “Fixed?”
      “It gets the dishes sparkling clean now.”
      Behind him, he heard Desiree struggle to suppress a laugh.
      “On your vids, this is what you want yes?” The creature looked up anxiously. “Bright and clean and sparkly?”
      “Ah. Yes. Your voice?” he prodded.
      “Oh! We just talk,” it said earnestly. “We don’t listen. To thoughts? It is rude.”
      “Rude.”
      It nodded. Mendril took a deep breath. “May I ask why you are here?”
      “The Emperor is getting passage,” it said, looking back down at absently putting the matter creator back together. “So I was told to keep busy and not bother people. Have I bothered you?”
      “A little,” he said. “But it’s okay. Ah. How does it work, now?”
      It pulled a hand out of the matter creator, a tool in its hand vanishing into - nothing, it seemed. “Better.”
      Mendril counted to ten. “What does better mean?”
      The creature blinked a few times. “I don’t understand?” it sent, finally.
      The guards were snickering openly now; Mendril ignored them as well. “How is it better?”
      “Oh!” It reached out a hand and pushed.
      The transmitter hummed, than began glowing a soft cherry red.
      Desiree drew a slugthrower, alarmed, just as the glow faded and was replaced by the smell of melting plastic. A single dish was ejected, and he heard her drop her weapon, breath hissing out between clenched teeth.
      It was diamond, thin as ancient china dishes Mendril had only heard of in reference to some dictator who liked tea. It was art, on this world, in this age. Made from a lowly matter creator.
      He took a deep breath, staring into a worried face he could see the wall behind. “It’s - very pretty,” he managed, mentally connecting to the computers for advice. But there was silence. Silence in his head, where there had been only noise.
      His voice was hollow when it came out, as if someone else spoke in his stead: “What did you use to power that?”
      “You had sources below. I spliced,” the creature said.
      “You drained the Computers,” he managed.
      “Upgraded, too,” it said proudly. “Your systems were full of -” it hesitated, then sent: “confusion. Not nice patterns? Repaired. It should come back soon. I don’t know why is hasn’t yet?”
      The guards stopped snickering. The silence behind him stretched, filled with things he tried not to think about
      “I see,” he managed.
      “I could fix more?” it offered. “Your computers are so old they reboot,” in disbelief.
      “No.” Mendril drew a smile up from somewhere, knowing it couldn’t be reading his mind with that earnest innocence on its face. “It’s okay now. You can go.”
      The creature wandered out through a wall, and Mendril had a moment to wonder if the Computers would return. He didn’t other saying it was only a job, that he had tried his best for the world; it wouldn’t have mattered. There was a shot, he didn’t know who, a flash of pain - mercifully brief - and nothing.

Back Cover Poem #1

Driven by personal demons
Made by experience;
Sparrows of insomnia picking
     at the inside of his skull.
Harsh obstacles -- and with each other
Hosting a children's party
To stand the test of time;
Pilgrim in search of herself
Trying to shield children in their arms --
An ever-changing world.