A Taste of Nitratus of Silver - By Sasha

Once upon a time in the far away land of Edmontonia, there lived a bright young scholar named Alexa. She had journeyed a long way from her home, riding principally in the backs of trade caravans and on spare horses of passing travellers. She loved her family back home in Calgarias, but she was a driven young woman who was determined to become the wisest practitioner of earth magic in all the world.

Alexa found that life as a scholar was different than she anticipated. Back home, many people knew of her and her family. In the realm of Edmontonia, she found that she was naught but a passing flea in the fur of a mangy wild dog. She walked into her first lesson bright-eyed and eager to learn, only to find herself surrounded by several hundred other hopefuls. The professors, who looked so wise with their long white beards and vast knowledge of magic, were not as helpful as Alexa had anticipated. She thought that every student in an academy of magic would have their own mentor, but alas, it seemed that only happened in stories.

One of Alexa’s least favorite subjects was potions. She had to get up at the crack of dawn every Thursday morning to walk to the academy and start brewing mixtures of strange fluids and herbs. To make matters worse, her teacher, a gnome, didn’t seem to know Human very well – she preferred to speak only in Gnommish.

Alexa struggled to wake herself up every morning to attend her potions class. She would much rather sleep in – some days, she thought about how much easier it would be if she hadn’t made the pilgrimage from Calgarias. Her brothers had stayed behind to become apprentice blacksmiths, which seemed like a much more reasonable goal than becoming a mage. Alexa’s dream of being the most powerful practitioner of earth magic seemed to have little hope.

On one particular foggy morning, Alexa was sleeping late, as usual. Luckily, a passing songbird tweeted a particularly lively melody just outside the young girl’s window, upon which Alexa jolted upright and rushed to grab her cauldron and stack of scrolls before she rushed out the door. She managed to make her way to the classroom only a few minutes late, though she did bother a family of sleeping rabbits along the way.

Most of the students had already started their cauldrons boiling by the time Alexa arrived. The room was beginning to fill with the usual thick smoke that accompanied amateur potion brewing. Alexa apologized to her teacher, but the gnome merely nodded and gestured for her to get going. She quickly went to her seat and pulled out her cauldron and magical text, the “Labus Manualus.” She followed the instructions for brewing that day’s potion very carefully.

Eventually, the potion she was brewing called for a particular grey liquid, called Nitratus of Silver. Alexa looked around the classroom, and beheld a small pot of cool silver fluid, connected to a strange contraption. She grabbed one of her glass phials and examined the contraption a little closer. The instructions read “Presseth the button, and ye shall receive this ingredient.”

Alexa pressed the lever at the top of the nozzle of the contraption, but nothing happened. The button would not budge. She tried again, but still nothing. Already frustrated from her lack of sleep, Alexa called for her teacher, who shuffled over lazily and attempted to dispense the Nitratus of Silver.

Alas, even Alexa’s teacher was unable to extract the Nitratus of Silver from its delicate hold. Both Alexa and the gnome grew increasingly angry, and instead of examining the apparatus further, decided to slam on the button harder until results were obtained. Eventually, the nozzle erupted and the silver liquid sprayed all over young Alexa and her teacher.

“Behold!” exclaimed the gnome moments after Alexa extracted the last of the silver liquid from her skin and clothing. “It appears that the cap was still on the device.” Alexa looked, and saw that indeed, if they had taken the cap off of the nozzle, the entire process of obtaining the Nitratus of Silver could have been much easier.

After cleaning herself off and finishing her potion, Alexa did not think much about the mishap of that morning for the rest of the day, or indeed, for the next few days. She was far too busy marvelling over the intricacies of earth magic and physical magic and mathematical magic that she was learning in her other classes, from her wise, bearded professors. In fact, it was not until several days later that Alexa thought back to the events of that particular potions class.

It was on another foggy morning that Alexa woke up and looked at herself in her magic mirror. At first, she was shocked. Surely, some mischievous sprite had put cursed fairy dust in her bed while she was sleeping! How else could her face and arms be covered in little grey dots?

“Magic mirror,” said Alexa, “Tell me what is the cause of this malady?”

“Why, you are the cause,” replied the magic mirror. “You did not read your Labus Manualus properly, or you might have learned that Nitratus of Silver causes grey discoloration when in contact with skin. It should disappear in only a few days, but until then you might look like you have a sort of strange illness. I must say, you will not be the fairest in the land for at least a week.”

A Sci-Fi Christmas, by Dima

Another Christmas Special

Admiral Kelton stood at the rear of the bridge, watching the magnificent display on the viewscreen.  Magentas and scarlets and sodium-lamp yellows and even neon greens burst and twisted and lashed out.  Hearty applause rose up all around him, the bridge personnel also enjoying the extraordinary explosion.

“Shields,” an officer lazily declared, and the blue haze swept across the screen just as the scraps of the obliterated craft flew close to fill the view.  The captain turned around in his chair to meet Kelton’s eyes, who gave a barely perceptible nod.  The captain smiled and activated the comlink.

“Engineering, the enemy craft has been destroyed.  How is the hook holding up?”  A crackle filled the bridge and the din died down as all hands waited for the response.

“The hook is in perfect condition,” came the response, pride evident in the engineering chief’s voice, and the smile returned to the bridge officers’ faces, “She worked perfectly.  Almost like I’d designed it myself.”  Eyes rolled all around the bridge.  Lieutenant Commander Yttrushak had an ego to surpass even the captain’s.

“Captain Amarallo,” the admiral quietly intoned as the captain lifted himself from his chair, “A word, please.”

“Certainly, Admiral, certainly.”  Amarallo beamed, unaware of the rebuke he was about to receive as he strode toward his ready room, Kelton following very closely.  As the doors hissed close behind them, and Amarallo piped up:

“Really was a fantastic show, wasn’t it?  I mean, we reall-“  The captain turned around to face Kelton just as Kelton’s open hand landed a surprisingly heavy blow on Amarallo’s jaw.  Amarallo reeled and fell back against the table.  Dazed, he looked up at Kelton, who was upon him in an instant.

“Do you understand why we are here?” he bellowed.  “Those creatures must be destroyed!”  Amarallo’s eyes widened with confusion.

“I thought- we- the creatures-“

“You lost a prime opportunity!  We know they’re all gathering!  We know there are dozens more out there!  We cannot afford to pass on a chance to extract information from those filthy half-breed degenerates just to see fireworks!”  Saliva flew over the captain’s face and the admiral bellowed on.

“The next time, you incapacitate the ship, you board it, you take prisoners, and you cut off their revolting tentacles one by one until they reveal the location of every last craft!  DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?”  Another slap to the face, and Kelton stormed from the ready room without waiting for a response.

And orbiting behind a nearby planet was just such a craft.  Returus, the navigator, was quietly conferring with his commanding officer, Jessa.

“They got another one.”

“I know, Returus.  I saw it as did you.”

“They can find us.  They have the cane.”

“They won’t find us.”

“But the cane.  The hook.  It’s ours.  It’s connected to all of us.”

“But we’re smarter.  We’re hiding now.  The rest of us can hide.  They won’t find us.”

“Jessa!  As long as they have the candy cane, they’ll find each one of us!”

“They won’t.”

“Jessa!”

“Returus!  Listen to me!  The candy cane, yes, it’s the best tactical instrument we’ve ever developed.  But these ships, they’re not like the old ones.  They’re like nothing the galaxy has ever seen.  Even if they find us, we can escape.  We just can’t get cocky like Onturo’s team!”

The two stood in silence for a moment.  Returus broke the silence after a full minute.

“We need to get the cane back.”  Jessa nodded.

“You’re right.  And we will.”

“We have to board their ship and regain its swirling pepperminty power.”

“You’re right.  And we will.”

“We have to be with the others for Christmas.”

“You’re right.  And we will.”

A Childhood Memory

This was from a while ago, I can't believe I forgot to post it. Here it is:

Today, I learned the name of those flower shrubs that grew near my house.  They were behind the playground in the cul-de-sac.  Potentilla.  I never knew what they were called.  To me, they were just those flowers.

The white ones looked like daisies.  Because they were white and had yellow centers.  The yellow ones were the same, but they were yellow.

There were lots of them in the summertime.  They grew on bushes.  The bushes looked the same for both the yellow and the white flowers.  (in later years I would discover that there could be pink ones, but back then, there was only white and yellow)  To this day, I still like the white and yellow ones. They always seem to have more flowers than the pink ones.

I used to pick those little flowers off the bush.  Sometimes I would put them in my hair, but they were so small they fell out.  Mostly I played the game that the girls played with daisies in the story books or cartoons.  Each little flower had five round petals.  They were perfect for that daisy game, since I thought the white ones were daisies anyway.  I remember preferring the white ones.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

I had no idea who “he” was.  I still don’t.  It didn’t matter.  He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me!

The last petal was always the same, whoever he was, he loved me alright.  I kept playing the game to make sure. 

One day, I tried starting with “He loves me not” instead of “he loves me”. The flower ended with He loves me not!  I counted the petals, there were five.  I didn’t know what odd and even numbers were back then, but that day I learned that when a flower has five petals, whatever you start with will be what you end with.

No more surprises.  I knew, from that day one, “he” would always, always love me.

Years later, in our new house: Mom put some shrubs with the same yellow flowers in front of our house.  I decided that someday, I will remember the white ones too.  They look more like daisies.

As told by: Me now, me then, and Dad.

Dad’s favourite Christmas story EVER.

A tale to be told at family gatherings now, and forever after, it is one of those embarrassing stories parents love, and children don’t understand until they are all grown up. Such a thing is my story.

It only makes sense to tell this tale in retrospect, since I did not at all understand it in my childish innocence. Only now do I understand why my father nearly had a heart attack, and even now is his favourite story to tell about Christmas.

Ever since I was 5 or  6, the tradition began that dad would take the children 6 and up, shopping for Christmas presents for our siblings. We would have a budget to keep within, and then he would take us out to lunch. As I grew, it was always my favourite part of Christmas.

Now for the incident, dad and I were shopping and he had to make a quick stop at the bank. I believe that I was 6, and was left in the vehicle. It only makes sense, after all, why would you take a six-year-old into the bank with you?  Waiting in the van looking at the presents bought that morning was much more exciting. And dangerous or so my father was about to find out.

One gift in particular was very exciting. It was a ski mask for my younger brother.

So my dad walks out of the bank, and sees in the passenger-side of the old style mini-vans, a person wearing a ski mask.  Key points here are Bank parking-lot. You can only imagine his panic when he realizes it is his daughter. He rushed to me and thanked heaven that no one else had seen me. Knowing he himself would have been suspicious. At the time, I did not. But little did I know that I would be reminded time and time again. And again.

As told by the child, who was me:

Christmas shopping with dad is my favourite part of Christmas. I love spending time with dad, it is so fun because he works so much and gets home after bedtime. We get to go to different stores and find presents for my brothers.

“I just need to stop here at the bank, ok sweetie?” Dad says as he pulls into the parking stall, “I’ll be right back.

I nod, not really paying too much attention. Errands are such an adult thing to do.

This morning we found a great find.  I looked in the shopping bag at it. It is a ski mask, for my oldest younger brother Brett. It is like a big, black toque that comes down on your face and has three holes for the eyes and mouth. It also has a band of colour around the neck. There were several colours to choose from, but I chose red for Brett.

I decide to try the novelty on, so I slip it over my head and start fussing about arranging my hair so it does not cover my eyes.

Suddenly dad bursts in the door and tells me to take it off. He is out of breath, that’s odd. I tell him I was just trying it on.

After a few deep breaths, we drive off and dad explains that he understands what I was doing, and there was nothing wrong with it, it was just that you really should not ever try a ski mask on in front of a bank because you look like a robber.

I ponder that a moment and then don’t think about it again. Lesson learned and on with life.

As told by Dad at every Christmas gathering that I can painfully remember. (that kind when ALL the adults laugh at that silly thing you did, and frankly the only reason I really even remember this story):

Alright, so every year since they turned a certain age, I would take the kids Christmas shopping, and out for lunch at a restaurant. It is fun for the kids, but mostly so I could spend some time with them.

They had a ten dollar budget for each sibling and mom, and it was good for them because they learned to budget. They might find that gift that Russell would die for, but it is too outside the budget and so they would have to find something else. I really loved seeing when they got really excited about something they had got for one another. Because the real spirit of Christmas is the giving.

My favourite Christmas story ever, I was with Nicole, she was six, and we used to drive this big old ghetto mini-van.

That morning we found a ski mask for Brett.

(“Like the kind bank robbers have?” someone once asked, during one of my many telling’s of this story.)

Yes! I replied, hardly able to contain my laughter, “Exactly! Now just you wait, let me continue…”

I had to stop at the bank, and as I am walking out, I see someone wearing this ski mask in the van. Then I realize, wait! That’s my daughter. I rush over and tell her to take it off. She had no idea what she had done, nor would she have she was just little. But I knew, that even me looking on, if anyone else had seen her in the mask in the bank parking lot, there would be explaining to do. And what police officer is going to buy “My six-year-old daughter was trying on the Christmas present” idea.

I nearly had a heart attack, but it seems that no one else saw or called anyone. And now, I nearly die laughing thinking about it. It is my favourite story to tell at Christmas.

Olivia - A Tale from Three Different Perspectives, by Sasha

Author's Note: Though the specific details of this event may be embellished, it is a true story.

My uncle was lucky enough to marry a girl from a very rich family. They own what they would call a cabin, and what anyone else would call a mansion, on a small lake in Montana. This family is gracious enough to let my uncle invite all of his brothers and their families for a week of fun each summer to use the cabin and all of the water toys. I remember the first time my family and I went to what is probably my favorite place in the world. All of my siblings and I were present, but my sister, Olivia, who is most important in this case, was only about a year and a half old. I was ten.

Now, on the first day at the cabin, my parents and most of the other aunts and uncles like to go into town to buy groceries and other goodies that are much cheaper in the States. They left in the early afternoon, when my sister was getting very tired. My grandmother assured my mom that she would put her to bed right away and there was no need to worry – she would be a great babysitter. My mom agreed, but reminded my grandma to tape Olivia’s diaper shut for reasons that will soon be made clear. My grandma, of course, promptly forgot, and put Olivia to sleep in the nice crib in one of the cabin-mansion’s beautifully decorated bedrooms.

I can’t remember what we did for the next few hours, but I do remember when my little sister woke up. I followed my grandma into the room where she was supposed to be sleeping, and we were in for a shock. My little sister, upon waking up with a full diaper, had opened the thing and thrown the contents all over the walls, making a huge brown mess on the pale blue paint. She was standing in the bed buck naked with the hugest smile on her little baby face.

Now, this would not be nearly as funny a story if it weren’t for my little cousin, who was about three years old at the time. Little Walker took after his dad down to every mannerism, and for a toddler, he was very particular about messes. He had the misfortune of walking into my little sister’s room right when my grandma and I found her. It was very funny to see his little face freeze in terror. After a moment, he took a deep breath and said, horrified, “Why would she do that?”

***

“Grandma, I think I can hear Olivia laughing on the baby monitor,” I say. Grandma is sitting on the lawn chair, trying to get her skin to what she calls a “nice tan,” color but I would say is more of a “burnt lobster.”

“Oh, is she?” says Grandma. “Well, we better get her. I think you should come with me, OK darling?”

I nod and follow Grandma into the house. I don’t know what Olivia’s doing, but she sounds awfully loud. I’m surprised she hasn’t started crying yet – that kid has barely stopped wailing since the moment she was born.

Grandma opens the door first, and she stops before I can get in behind her. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to shove my way in.

“Oh my goodness,” says Grandma in that flustered way that only Grandma speaks, all whispery and soft.

I push my way through and I see Olivia standing up in her crib. Her diaper is on one corner of the mattress and her hands are a mucky brownish yellow. The best thing, though, is the room. It’s absolutely covered in poo! I can’t help but burst out laughing.

“You didn’t tape her diaper shut, did you?” I ask Grandma.

“No, of course not!” she says. “Who tapes their baby’s diaper shut? That’s such a strange thing to do, I thought surely your mother must have been joking!”

“Well, now you know,” I say. “I’m not cleaning that up – you’re the babysitter.” Once Olivia sees us, she stops giggling at her mess and starts to cry. She always does that when she wants attention. She’s terribly needy for a one-year-old.

“Grandma,” says a little boy’s voice from the hallway. “Do you want to see the crawdad I caught?”

Walker stops in his tracks when he gets in the room. He looks around with a mixture of disappointment and fear on his face. The bucket of water that he’s holding drops to the floor. Finally, he looks at Olivia, and then to my grandma. “Why would she do that?” he breathes.

I laugh. Grandma, looking thoroughly disgusted, picks up Olivia, who is whimpering rather loudly now, delicately under the arms and carries her quickly to the nearest bathroom. I follow her, because I don’t know what else to do, and there is no way that I’m staying in the bedroom to wipe poo off of the walls. I expect Walker to run away as quickly as he can, but instead he follows us and keeps talking as Grandma tries to get Olivia clean.

“Why would she do that?” asks Walker again. He’s shocked, but oddly fascinated by the whole thing. “Who would do that?” he asks me. “That’s… so disgusting. Poo. So disgusting.”

***

James and Janine Thompson had a very nice day at the Target in Eureka. They made quite a few purchases of things they could only find in a US store, and they spent a little more money than they probably should have. In fact, they didn’t think about the four children they had left in James’ mother’s care for the whole day, assuming, rather incorrectly, that everything would be fine.

They pulled into the driveway, and Janine started unpacking groceries into the cabin’s kitchen, chatting with her sister-in-law Beth, whose parents owned the cabin, along the way. She didn’t see anyone upstairs, so she assumed that her mother-in-law and all of the children must be outside playing in the lake.

After they were finished, Janine and Beth walked outside to check on the children, but instead of finding the grandmother watching over the hoard of kids playing in the water, she found her ten-year-old daughter, Alex, reading a book and keeping one rather lazy eye on the other children.

“Where’s Grandma?” asked Janine.

“Oh, hi Mom!” said Alex, a little too jumpy. “Oh, you’re gonna be so mad. Grandma’s in the bathroom next to Olivia’s room. Walker’s there too,” she said to Beth, Walker’s mother.

Janine already feared the worst as she walked down the hallway to the bedrooms. She found that the bathroom was empty. Instead, her mother-in-law was busy in the bedroom. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing a suspicious brown substance out of the floor, while an angry year-old girl wailed on the floor beside her, and a curious toddler watched her every move.

“I think you missed a spot,” said Walker. He turned around when Janine and Beth entered the room. “Mom!” he exclaimed. “Olivia pooed during nap time and then threw her poo!” He said the last phrase in a whisper, as though it was almost too crazy to speak of.

Janine’s face reddened. “I’m so sorry, Beth,” she said, picking up Olivia. “I know this is your parent’s house. We’ll get everything off the walls, don’t worry.”

To her relief, Beth simply laughed. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said. “And what my parents don’t know doesn’t hurt them.”

Mr. and Mrs. Andrews by Mika

Challenge: Write the story of a picture you have never seen before.

Mr. and Mrs. Andrews sat calmly, posing for the painting they had commissioned. Their dog Digby panted at Mr. Andrew’s side, the summer heat as hard on him as it was on Mrs. Andrews in her layers of clothing.

Suddenly Digby tensed and sniffed the air, alert to something that the rest of them couldn’t see. The Andrews turned to investigate but the painter made such infuriated sounds that they stopped trying to peer off to the side and settled back down into their positions.

Mrs. Andrews concentrated on breathing slowly and shallowly, her corset snugged so tight she could barely manage even that.

Mr. Andrews held his unloaded gun propped against him with his sleeve-covered arm, the metal too hot to hold in this heat. The gun was too heavy anyway, and he didn’t really know how to use it.

“If you could keep the dog still,” the painter grumbled.

“Digby!” Mr. Andrews barked out but the poor animal kept pawing at his master’s leg and whining. His tail was tucked firmly between his legs as he stared to the couple’s left in fear.

“What was that?” Mrs. Andrews asked suddenly, her head turning in the same direction as Digby’s.

“What was what, dear?” Her husband asked tiredly.

“That noise…” she trailed off, then shook her head. “It must have been a cow…or a bird…”

“uuuuuuuu”

All three people turned this time. There had definitely been a noise. A strange noise.

“Uuuuuuu”

Slowly a group of people appeared as they crested a hill. They were walking slowly, shambling really, their arms outstretched before them as they milled along confusedly.

“uuuuuuu”

Digby started barking and the group of people turned towards the sound, their shamble picking up speed as they trotted purposefully towards the group.

“What are they? What’s going on?” Mrs. Andrews asked hysterically, fanning herself with her hands.

The painter was furiously trying to pack up his supplies before he looked up again at the group of people closing in.

They were….dead. They had to be. Their bodies rotten and very deceased. One was missing an arm, another an eye. One had a bullet wound through his chest and another a hole in his leg. But still, somehow they were moving.

“Aaaah!” Mrs. Andrews’ shrill scream pierced the air as she tried to run away, floundering in her skirts and unable to breathe in the heat and the corset and her panic.

Mr. Andrews put his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired, but the gun barrel was empty and the creatures kept coming.

Digby was barking, running in circles around the Andrews as he tried to protect them but the horde closed in around the couple as the painter ran for his life, his art supplies trailing behind him as he held the canvas tucked under his arm.

"Fridge" by Dima

A wildly jubilant creation, birthed in the scarlet rays of moonset after the long literary labour of Bad Poetry Night.

I.

SILENCE!

THE THUNDEROUS HUNGER THUNDERS!

The gongs of the walls of my tremulous belly summon the hour

like so many triangles

on the ranch.

RING A LING LING LING LING!  COME AND GET IT!

boys.

come and get it.

The scent has called them

Long ago

From their labours.

they labour.

They sniff.

RING A LING LING LING!  COME AND GET IT!  BEHOLD!  THEY COME TO GET IT!  AT LONG LAST THEIR SWEAT WILL BE REWARDED.

Their sweat.

Their perspiration.

The succulent juice of life and mere feral essence freshly squeezed from the tangerine of God’s ultimate creation!

BEHOlD!  MAN!  HE HUNGERS!

By the sweat of his brow.

Brown brows bow in the bowl of bolted bastions.

II.

So MANY YEARS AGO

I REMEMBER

I remember

I cry

AND REMEMBER

this knocking.

HARK!  A MOUSE!

It scurries behind yon panel of stainless steel.

We embrace.  It is warm and yet inside so cold.  Can it ever know me as I have known the biting wind of the purpure twilight of dying romance?

Joanna.

yet still it babbles to me.

in my arms it whispers sweet nothings.  the pipes knock tenderly.

NO!  There is no mouse!

No!

No!

MOTHER!

I will not call no technician Never!

Never!

She speaks!

To me!

I must pull away

The lies

And All that keeps me from Her.

The one who fills me with filling.

Dust.

Oh, the DUST!

Grimy and dark and sacred and dusty.

She knocks again.  She speaks again.

I stare

With longing emerging from deep within my bowels

from the spot

The hollow spot

Where my appendix used to be

fourteen years ago

before it ruptured.

It was Removed

In a 54 minute surgery.

i stare

It is dark.  Into the dark.

I am engulfed.

III.

In an hour

I will sit at the crumb-ridden table.

I will stare at the dish rag in my hands.

i will regard with shame

Shame!

The mustard on my new white t-shirt.

I just bought it yesterday.

I have taken all that she would give to me!

EVERYTHING!

Why must I take?

Why!

Nothing remains inside.

I am become death

The Destroyer

of AppETITES.

O CURSED INCONTINENT APPETITE!

Filled.

Filled AGAIN.

Fulfilled.

The Cut

On my cold nose

STINGs.

The salty brine of nostalgic remorse washes past it.

I think of the one I have loved.

Loved too much.

She knocks.

Soiled Napkin by Nikolai

Soiled Napkin

Soiled Napkin who were't once a tree
Your only wish was to keep your dignity
But though were't set by a plate
No no you thought I want my life to run late
Knowing that a napkins life becomes trash
Once you become touched by potatoes that were mashed
You once looked so very fine
Because you were't made for a place where only rich people dine

The culprit that will end your life of ease
Walks through the door in the air there was no longer any peace
He was big and he was fat
And on the coatrack he put his hat
Followed the hostess to his chair
That is when your fate might finally become clear

Though you had survived many meals
When customers ordered salads with grated orange peels
This man was ordering the worst of things
He said to the waiter I want two dozen honey garlic chicken wings
The food arrived all to soon
You started sweating as if it were high noon
Clasping his hands, smacking his lips
Those wings would be wonderful with his favorite dips

Though you stayed clean a few moments more
As he licked his fingers and saying to the waiter 'I want some more.'
He reaches closer to you then the moment that every beautiful napkin dreads
It would truly be better to be a human who is dead

For after the meal to the garbage you must go
Then shipped to a dump more than six feet below
And because when you were born
Infused with chemicals that keep your life from being torn
Although the bugs like eating from the chicken wing fat stains
They avoid eating from your clean parts that remain
So from the beginning this was your fate
If only, if only you had not been placed beside that plate


Written by Nikolai


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How to Write a Love Letter by Lenitschka

This Cafe Chi game was several months ago, but it's one I have always been happy with. The Assignment: Write a Declaration of Love.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

No, that's been used before. I think. Plus counting off why doesn't seem like that effective a method.

Love is not love, which...

What comes after that? Something about not changing. Then something about storms and rain and all those descriptions of really dramatic love scenes in Regency costume. I can't do that either. My words couldn't compete with rain, green hills, or dramatic crescendos.

Love, love me do, you know I love....

Great. Now I was ripping off the Beatles instead of the Bard.

I have no words to say. They've all been said already; written, studied, summarized in essays, put on platinum records - and all much better than I ever could.

So what do I write to convey how I feel? No poetry ever would come right. I'm lucky if I can get a sentence out with the words in the right order, and I can never describe how I feel with any great metaphors.

So, I'll start with this:

I. Love. You.

Three words. Not a lot, but the ones that matter most anyway.

I love you.

It's a short lover letter, but I mean every word.

A Classical Piece - by Kolya

“Well darling, are we ready to go to the concert yet?”

“Not quite dearest.”

“Hurry now, we’ll be late.”

“We have to wait for your sister as well you know.”

“I know, but I’ve already accounted for that time, and we’re running out.”

“Did she find an escort this time Apollo?”

“Nope.  And you know that is just how she likes it.”

“Oh! But how can it be that such a fair young woman can parade the streets of Athens without so much as an escort!  It is outrageous.”

The gentleman, Sir Apollo just nodded.  Delphi always went on and on about his sister’s determination to end an old maid.  Inside, he knew his sister was only so stubborn because his wife was so obnoxious and pushy at times.  It wasn’t her fault.  She meant well.

His wife came made her grand appearance.  The hat on her head was new as of yesterday, and she couldn’t wait to show it off.

Off they went in the four-horse buggy. Up and down the streets towards the concert hall. 

The buggy stopped outside a row of fine apartments.  The attendant went to go fetch the gentleman’s sister.   Lady Artemis stepped into the carriage.  Her gown was a sparkling silver.

"Come boy."

The little terrier hopped into the carriage after them, and quickly onto his mistress’s lap.  Away they went to the concert hall.

Sir Apollo frowned as soon as his wife took a breath inward.  Out came a somewhat passive-aggressive rant about how proper ladies had handsome young men at their sides, and how many excellent and worthy young men Athen’s had to offer.

Lady Artemis just laughed.  Unaffected by her sister-in-law’s jibes. 

At last they made it to the concert hall. And Delphi’s remarks were turned upon the other ladies.

“Oh my stars! What is Andromeda wearing?  Who does she think she is!  She is a married woman, not Aphrodite!   And dear me, Demeter looks like she’s more than just a little upset about her daughter’s recent engagement.  I would be too if my husband didn’t tell me of his scheming arrangements.”

“Fortunately,”  Sir Apollo interrupted, “Your husband has no daughter’s to give away in any such fashion my dear.  You have nothing to fear from me.”

Delphi smiled and her eyes sparkled as she gazed lovingly at her husband, “Oh yes, darling.  But of course, everything you do is so agreeable.”

“Look, Eros and his bride,  why don’t you go and say hello?”  Lady Artemis put in.

“It is!  Oh isn’t she stunning!  I think I shall.”

As soon as she had left, Sir Apollo took the opportunity to apologize.  “I am sorry Artemis, I promise she means well.”

“I know.” She replied calmly.

He was surprised.

“After all, it was not her fault Orion left me, now, was it?”

It was the most spiteful thing he had ever heard his sister say.  And she said it so calmly.

“It is beginning. Shall we?”

The concert was devoted to the Iliad.  The movements of the music were as strong and violent as the battle itself seemed. 

More so for the gentleman Apollo, he had not realized his sister held him in such contempt. In retrospect, what he had done had been very petty, but there was no going back.  And dear Artemis was so sweet, it cut even deeper.

So there he sat.  Sweating bullets, his wife was seated between him and his sister.  That was not a good thing.  If Delphi kept up, and Artemis told her what happened, his dearest wife would never forgive him.  She did not conceal or repress her emotions well.

The music continued into a calmer movement, still he was as tense as a bowstring.  Thus far, his ingenious idea for a night out had not gone at all the way he had planned.

The first segment neared a close with a small finale, and the intermission began.  Ironically, the lights fading in filled him with dread.

He did not think Artemis would say much to Delphi, but there was not telling what kind of punishment she had in store for him.