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Very short stories to read at the bus stop.


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The Other Easter

(viewed 2294 times)
It's true. Every egg eventually hatches. Every seed eventually sprouts.

All those eggs in your fridge? Just give them time. They might not necessarily hatch into chickens, but they'll hatch. They'll crack. They'll hatch green smelly furry stuff. The fundamental stuff of life!

It's not their fault if they're not the sort of children a mother would love.

Likewise every seed we plant will sprout.

All throughout every town there are lovely little green gardens where we plant our most precious seeds, lovingly cleaned and sterilized and perfumed and wrapped and dressed and boxed in boxes inside boxes and buried deep deep deep.

Because the harder we make a seed work, the more surprising and beautiful the flower that eventually eventually eventually will burst forth.

A good seed loves a challenge. Formaldehyde, concrete and marble make a wonderful compost, a fantastic mulch. Tears are the best water we could sprinkle on our gardens. It's the pure water of love.

Has a single one of our most precious seeds sprouted yet? It's only a matter of time. I hope I'm around to see it when the crop finally comes up.

In the meanwhile, I carry these two eggs around in my pocket everywhere I go. I fertilized them myself.

All the time I daydream, wondering what my children will look like.

[*]


PS:

Happy Halloween!

[.]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

31st Oct 2008, 03:13   | tags:comments (1)

Untitled

(viewed 3294 times)
"Nothing's ever achieved by planning." Joshua Stewart firmly believed
this, so much so that it dictated his life. He ate what was bought
each day and took his holidays when obliged by his profession. Joshua
didn't wear a watch but made his meetings on time. Success came
quickly. "Take care of the elephants and the pygmies will take care of
themselves" he'd joke. And there'd been a few heavyweight obstacles to
sidestep. His wife didn't care for his reactionary, laissez-faire
approach. Her political machinations had made her the master
puppeteer. But he'd always be remembered as the country's
longest-serving premier.

Short story written and kindly submitted to Microhappy by Merlin Goldman

Posted by jc1000000

19th Oct 2008, 18:12   comments (1)

Eternal Youth

(viewed 1441 times)
"Defy Ageing With Mr Amito's Amazing Japanese Mind Enhancing
Technique" only $99. The thought of a future wasting away in an old
people's home terrified Colin so he ordered a set immediately.

Mr Amito's sense sharpening exercises left Colin more alert, aware and
invigorated than he had felt in years. Which only made his untimely
death all the more tragic.

Because while heading to the office early one Monday morning, head
buried in Mr Amito's exercise book, Colin failed to notice the bus
careering towards him as he vainly attempted to cross the road.


Short story written and kindly submitted to Microhappy by Chris Bradshaw

Posted by jc1000000

13th Oct 2008, 22:42   | tags:comments (2)

Bottled Spirits

(viewed 1443 times)
It's hard for me to forget that intoxication was once considered (and still is, in places) influence from some sort of nature spirit, some elemental or duende or elf drawn evoked into a potion of grain mash or fruit juice or cane juice by building a trap and waiting, concentrated and purified by distillation, and bound and sealed in clay or glass jars.

Fermentation was necromancy, medicine was sorcery, and literacy was high magic indeed. Still is.

A can of Pabst Blue Ribbon ... lacks. It's like the industrial process captures one spirit per vat, and it's shared among all the cans filled per run. Wine has one spirit per barrel, whiskey one spirit per cask. That's better than per vat, but it's still not up to snuff.

The only real way to do it is one spirit per bottle. And keep the bottles small enough to be drained in a single draught. Anything else is watered down to the point of uselessness. For necromantic purposes, anyway.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

8th Oct 2008, 02:30   | tags:comments (4)

Gargoyle Versus Housecat

(viewed 1479 times)
I'm convinced the reason people used to carve roaring animal faces into the corners of their furniture was in effort to stop housecats from sharpening their claws on the legs and arms.

It's like those people in India that wear masks on the backs of their head in order to keep tigers from pouncing on them from behind.

I expect the efficacy was similar, though I have no guess to what extent it worked.

In fact, I think every reference to the need to repel "evil spirits" was a euphemism of a sort. For housecats, or maybe their larger cousins. But if you let on that it was housecats you were trying to repel or defend yourself from, you invited their retribution.

Gargoyles and other scary carvings? Repels housecats. Burning incense? Repels housecats. Crossing running water? Can't be done by housecats -- if it's farther than they can jump. Garlic on the windowsills? Repels housecats. Salt over the left shoulder? Repels housecats. Knocking on wood? Repels housecats.

A least in theory. If done right. Housecats don't like sudden loud noises. They don't like to lick garlic off their paws. They don't like to get their paws wet. I had a housecat that could be kept out of a room by having a fan blow across the doorway. Whether a gargoyle (or a mask on the back of the head) would work more than once I leave as an exercise for the reader.

I really hope there aren't any housecats reading this.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

7th Oct 2008, 02:48   | tags:comments (5)

Reception

(viewed 1334 times)
The bride was good looking. Fresh faced with a slightly naive look
about her as of one who had somehowmissed all the cruelty life could
throw her. She lacked the obvious and keen wit possessed by the,
presumably jaded, older cousin who had slinked onto the dancefloor.
One was a triumph of innocence over experience and perhaps the other
just looked good in a catsuit.

How petty the suffering of love seemed to him now. Yep, they had money
- the couples future was secure in that sense, but he'd seen all of
this before, and if he was still a betting man he'd have given the
girl 2 years before she realised what a donkey this 'suit' would prove
to be. We all are at that age. Yet she was too enrolled in her dream.
She had paid the membership, left the job and signed her name.

The catsuit purred as she stepped up to get a drink. She had danced
already but there was was nowhere to go on this ship except prop up
the bar. He'd found the same all his life. There's being trapped and
there's being trapped. Carlos knew the difference.

Posted by jc1000000

7th Oct 2008, 02:23   comments (4)

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, revisited

(viewed 3215 times)
Halfway between the darkness and the light ... is a crock.

Manichaeism, Zoroastrianism, God versus Satan, Yin and Yang, this whole thesis-antithesis-synthesis thing ... the problem with these is that, basically, your eyes adjust to whatever light there is, whether you live in a bright sunny place or a deep dark hole in the ground.

That's why these huge Platonic ideals fall flat. We're forged in the fires of opposing forces? Whatever. Not everything has an opposite. A leaf has no opposite. A handful of dirt has no opposite. A kick in the groin has no opposite.

And for the things that do have an opposite? We pretend that where we've been standing longest is that balancing point. It's ludicrous.

The darkness and the light. There's a good one to start with. Day and night happen here in more or less equal quantities, but daytime is spent a whopping ninety-three million miles away from our lightbulb. And light we can see is a tiny sliver of a wedge of the entire span of photonic energies.

Look up into the nighttime sky and measure the average brightness of what you see. That's the true measure once you pull the camera back from our little lightbulb. And then realize that all of the bright little dots you see are outweighed better than twenty to one by dark matter and dark energy. And that's not counting at all the pure empty blackness that it's all swirling around in.

If we're that screwed up about Light and Dark, how dead wrong do you think we must be about Good and Evil?

Every gambler will tell you he pretty much breaks even or is maybe a tiny smidge ahead of the game. If you can do math, then you have to know that all but a tiny few gamblers are either deluded or lying through their teeth.

Do as much good as you can. Shine your light as brightly as possible. But don't be deluded about how much good you're doing or how bright your little light is.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

28th Sep 2008, 06:07   | tags:comments (3)

What It Means To Be Late

(viewed 1561 times)
Ghosts drive cars, too.

This is a picture of a ghost trapped permanently in the world of ten minutes from now. He drove so fast, in such a complete mortal panic, he got completely ahead of himself.

You know how it happens. Inertial frames being what they are, we really can only share a Euclidean reality with everything else that's going our way. Accelerate too quickly in any particular direction, and everything you know distorts until it's unrecognizable and perpetually inaccessible, stretched thin or squashed flat and pushed outside of our light cone.

It happens with people, too. When someone says, "They drifted apart," now you know what they mean. "Drift" seems like a weak term, maybe, but we're so focused on where we're headed we don't notice what happens to everyone else...

That's what happened to this guy. We smell a whiff of his foul exhaust, hear the dying echoes of his screeching tires, but by the time we get to where he's been, he's long gone, forever stuck on the tachycardial side of the lightspeed barrier.

The absolutely hysterical part is that he's totally convinced he's late.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

25th Sep 2008, 04:13   | tags:comments (3)