A Thousand Stories : Volume 2 : Stories 0101-0200 : Gray

a thousand stories

j. blasso-gieseke

a thousand stories volume 2 : stories 0101-0200 : gray

j. blasso-gieseke

Books in the Series A Thousand Stories volume 1 : stories 0001-0100 : black volume 2 : 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

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 978-1-957399-01-0

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 0101. The Necropolis of Memory 0102. 21st Centaury 0103. Bells Be Ringing 0104. In the Empire of Imagination 0105. Dander the Shedless Dog 0106. Apple Park All-Stars 0107. On the Point of Pain 0108. String Theory 0109. Three Hundred and Sixty Views of Mount Fuji 0110. The Diet of Worms 0111. A Record of Man’s Ruin, A Record of Man’s Redemption 0112. Guinevere 0113. The Unreliable Narrator 0114. Municipal Carp 0115. The Passion of John Dark 0116. Warbride 0117. You Smell It and You Die 0118. Coach Odin 0119. The Death of Life and Death 0120. A Mind of Winter 0121. A Comment on Commas 0122. Mountain as Metaphor 0123. The Mudslide 0124. Shesha Yoga 0125. A.K.A. Kith Pithkin 0126. Monstaur 0127. Enambered 0128. In a Cup of Coffee 0129. Minister Sinister 0130. Synesthesia 0131. Groundhog Day 0132. The Idiot 0133. The Hiddenness of Things 0134. The Four Elementals 0135. Conqueror 0136. Twilight of the Idylls 0137. Millstone Albatross 0138. The Wildlife Cameraman 0139. How I Write a Story About How I Write a Story

0140. Beknighted 0141. Tubes Within Tubes Within Tubes Within Tubes 0142. Líf and Lífthrasir 0143. Body and Journal of Explorer Found 0144. Dagon, Take Me Away 0145. An Exegesis on the Exegesis 0146. The Church of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite 0147. The Prison System of the Body 0148. Foo Dog 0149. Inside a Chinese Food Take-Out Container 0150. The Phases of the Moon 0151. Art Films I’ll Never Make 0152. Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor 0153. Don’t Be a Dodo 0154. Medusa 0155. When Sharing Is Caring 0156. A Letter to Failure 0157. Werehouse 0158. Bakers Lane 0159. Party On 0160. The End of Thrillers 0161. The Grass Family Vacation 0162. Only in the Land of Make Believe 0163. Dolores 0164. Metis 0165. The Culinary Equivalent of Mozart 0166. I Guess It’ll Be Grace 0167. Nimrod 0168. Dream’s Dream 0169. The Present 0170. The Incident at the Saloon 0171. A Soft Answer to a Question Historically Answered With Hard Answers 0172. Empathy Is Emotional Collaboration 0173. My Imagination 0174. The Catskinners 0175. The Simurgh 0176. Satan Speaks 0177. Ram 0178. Orootoraturatumba 0179. Apeshit 0180. 180 Degrees 0181. Sleazepunk

0182. Big D 0183. We Come in Peace 0184. We Wait in Peace 0185. We Talk in Peace 0186. Kidding 0187. The Lesson for Today Is 0188. The Saint of Spiders 0189. The Ash of Nuclear Winter 0190. Soliloquacity 0191. The Yeti Tribe vs. the Snake People 0192. Properly Gnomish 0193. Constellations 0194. Miner Threat 0195. Marco Polo 0196. Fuk 0197. Matronym 0198. Black Life Energies 0199. Crying Wolf 0200. The Jetsuns

a thousand stories

0101. The Necropolis of Memory

This is the Necropolis of Memory, where fear-flesh walls creep and wax-cap tumuli sleep. Here encaustic portraits gaze through the haze of years, but see naught, their eyes are glazed, their likenesses caught. And if their mouths could talk, they’d mutely ooze ambrosial broth, which when mixed with milk would become a forgetful draught that would halt your steps to explore the depths for the wisdom that is sought. You must seek out she, Nepenthe, and let fear be your guide. Go now, for here you cannot abide.

This is the Palace of Ghosts, where starved larvae cloister in their narrow cells brooding upon the death of pupae in their somber wells. But you must move on. No wisdom can be found here where the wraith of time dwells.

This is the Hive-Mind Mausoleum, where blind sockets sit unsealed beneath the undead queen who reigns supreme. Fear her, for her sting is a final emptying. In these chambers, she is the barrenness of her colony, the annihilation of pollination, of things as they are. To leave here, you must unhex her hexes, and exit through the nearest exit.

This is the Temple of the Dead, where moths haunt the galleries, black gallery moths, powdered and empowered with a greater sleep and silence more potent than death. Here in the corridors between the comb you must call the worm. And it comes crawling. Limbless, writhing, its hunger is your hunger for oblivion. Hush now. Soft wings flutter in the deep unlight. Hush now. The death of death is now in sight.

0102. 21st Centaury

In the 21st Centaury not much has changed. Instead of following in the hoofprints of Chiron, we’ve followed in the hoofprints of Nessus. Sure, we’re more civilized, but it doesn’t take much to awaken the old tribal, lustful, and violent animal within.

Just look at how we’re treating each other today. Even though we’re educated enough to know that we all share a common ancestor in Centaurus, we’re still killing each other. And despite our technologic sophistication, we’re still manufacturing weapons of war. But we ignore this because we’re rich enough not to see it happening outside our stalls.

That’s why I continue to look to Chiron for inspiration. He was truly wise, civilized, and ahead of his time. He studied medicine to not only heal our sick bodies, but to heal our sick minds and souls. He wanted a better life for all centaurs. But like so many who fought for equuality, he was taken from us much too early.

Our civilization can no longer afford to follow Nessus. To change, we must acknowledge the difficult truths of our past and ask the descendants of the centaurs we slaughtered, enslaved, and suppressed to forgive us. If we can be forgiven, the suffering of their ancestors can be redeemed to inform our present and future.

Standing in the light of truth, we can begin working together to make everyone materially whole and create a future worthy of our foals. It will take a lot of humility and hard work, but we’ll get there. Chiron has already shown us the way.

0103. Bells Be Ringing

Bela Tarr’s movie Satantango opens with phantom bells ringing from a bombed out church. On Sundays, the church calls the faithful to prayer by ringing the angelus. In bell towers everywhere, we believe a Quasimodo hides, pulling the rope that turns the yoke from which the bells hang like heads from a pillory. The parts of a bell are named after the parts of the head and body: crown, shoulder, waist, lip, and mouth. In my opinion, the clapper should be called the tongue, crying for liberty till the bell jar and the bell curve cracks. Until then, we must keep giving our harness bells a shake to ask if there’s been some mistake, and from the nightmare of this live burial hope to wake. Because we’re in the hell of endless holiday jingles. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. You’ve stolen the soul of Christmastime with your relentless airplay. And on every radio and television station, there’s no escaping capitalist commodification making us sick over winter vacation. Ma Bell still has the illest communication.

Sing people, sing: Let freedom ring. Until Mykola Leontovych plays his Carol of the Bells, a song whose carillon echoes across the years from Andrei Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev back to Manheim Steamroller and the Violin. And tubular bells too. And, yes, of course, more cowbell. Till we’re absolutely palsied with bells, and in rebellion, we pull one over our heads, and dive into the sea, where we wait to marry the dark forever, unafraid of that solemn and singular bell tolling for thee.

0104. In the Empire of Imagination

In the Empire of Imagination, you are the Emperor and Empress over all the kings and queens, over all the archdukes and archduchesses, over all the princes and princesses, over all the dukes and duchesses, over all the sovereign princes and sovereign princesses, over all the marquis and marquesses, over all the counts and countesses, over all the viscount and viscountesses, over all the barons and baronesses, over all the baronets and baronetesses, over all the knights and ladies, over all the gentlemen and maids, over all the people, over all the animals, over all the plants, over all the land, and all the kingdoms, archduchies, duchies, and baronies, including the sky and the sea, and the sun and the moon, and all the planets of the Milky Way, and all the stars, galaxies, and nebulae throughout space and time from beginning to end.

In the Empire of Imagination, there isn’t a thing anywhere that you don’t own; everything is yours and yours alone. You can travel when and wherever you please and meet whomever you like. It doesn’t matter if they’re alive or dead or if you’ve invented them in your head, because everything everywhere and when is in your head.

In the Empire of Imagination, you can be anything or anyone. You can be a god or a goddess, or you can be both, fusing the two halves back into a beautiful androgynous whole. Or you can be a cypher that sees while remaining unseen, unheard, unsmelt, unfelt, and unknown. Or you can be nothing, by yourself, alone.

0105. Dander the Shedless Dog

Dander the Shedless Dog refused to shed his skin and fur and refused to poo and pee.

“Everything that I am is mine. And I must keep me on my hide. And I must keep me all inside,” Dander said.

At first, Dander’s owners thought it was wonderful that they never had to clean up after him. They bragged that he was the best dog ever.

They never had to brush his coat, cut his nails, or take him on walks. If they left him with enough food and water, they knew they could leave him over a long weekend or an extended vacation and never come home to a mess. But when Dander began to swell and smell; they encouraged him to use the bathroom and take a bath.

“Please get it out of your head that I should ever shit or shed,” Dander said.

When Dander began to really stink, and his body became bloated, and his fur grew thick and matted, and his nails grew long, they pleaded with him to use the bathroom and take a bath.

“Furgetaboutit! It’s none of your affair if I choose not to lose a single hair or scrap of skin, or if I wish to keep myself within,” Dander said.

When Dander could no longer walk, see, or eat, his owners begged him to allow them to take him to a vet.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m perfectly fine. I die happily knowing I used all of my time keeping everything that I am as mine,” Dander said and died.

0106. Apple Park All-Stars

We used to play hockey at Apple Park. The park was right next door to my house. It had some other name, a real, official name. Ter and I read it on a sign once, but forgot it, because we’ve been calling it Apple Park since time immemorial. As far as we’re concerned, it was, and always will be, Apple Park.

We used to play inside the chain-link enclosure across one side of the twin tennis courts. This stopped most of the pucks from most of the slapshots from most of the worst players on either team. The twin chainlink nets also gave us a sideline where extra players from both teams could wait their turn. It was a next to perfect place to play.

We used to play deck hockey, so most of us were on foot, but some played on skates or roller blades. It was a real motley affair.

We used to play with various colored balls, red, orange, pink, or blue, depending on the season or depending on who brought what with them.

We almost always called it a puck but sometimes we called it a ball.

We used to play everyday, or at least we tried to.

Many funny stories happened while playing hockey and around playing hockey. Everyone who played with us was a real character.

Everyone had their own personality, their own strengths and weaknesses that could be exploited for the fun of laughter or the fun of the game.

Everyone knows who they were, when they were, “up there” at the park.

0107. On the Point of Pain

“Pain is exquisite,” he said, brandishing a long pin. “Do you see this? I’m not even stabbing you, and you’ve already become more present. But, were I to stab you, you’d immediately feel yourself here.

“Before, your mind was drifting in the clouds amongst a million thoughts. But when I show you this pin, or stab you with it, you’re immediately here, brought back to your body, grounded to earth.

“Pain makes you present. Pain makes you wise. We forget about the body and its wisdom. We forget about it, because we’re free from pain.

But as soon as pain’s present, we’re present and aware.

“Incredible isn’t it? I think that’s why we fear it the most. Not because it hurts, but because it brings us back to our senses, back to ourselves.

“We’re always trying to run away from ourselves. But, when the pain’s in your body, there’s nowhere to run. It’s why we like to live narcotized and insensate lives. It’s a pity really. Pain offers us so much: presence, awareness, and memory.

“When you feel pain for the first time, it’s a shock to your system.

Everything lights up, your entire body’s ready, armed and alarmed. You’re on as you’ve never been on before.

“But, when the pain passes, it doesn’t just pass away. No, it passes into your memory, and you carry it with you. Pain makes you remember the time you were in pain. Because, you see, pain never leaves, even after it’s gone.

“Now, hold still, my little moth. This is going to hurt.”

0108. String Theory

We believed our lives were not our own. We believed we were controlled, but by who or what, we did not know.

Desperately, we sought to find the invisible strings tied to our lives.

Some believed they found them, and traced them back to a single Source.

They called this Source by different names. Some humanized it and called it God; some dehumanized it and called it Fate.

But whether human or inhuman, they believed a Puppet Master was there, pulling the strings of love or indifference above life’s stage.

As puppets, we humbly played our roles until we wanted more control and, with mental shears, we cut our strings, and thought ourselves free from things.

However, we did not collapse limp upon the stage, but stood upright on sturdy legs, with steady hands, and steadfast minds.

Convinced we were alone all this time, and without a Master that we could find, we all became Puppet Masters with our minds.

So we attached our strings to everything and controlled them humanely or inhumanely like the former gods and fates.

And we increased our power by building better instruments, machines, and weapons, to conquer all the world’s defenses.

Until, in time, we eventually found the strings connecting everyone to everything, and everywhere to everywhen.

We knew then that every push must be a pull, and every pull must be a push, in all directions all at once.

Of course, our lives remain our own. They’re just no longer ours alone.

There is no center of control in the whole wide universe.

0109. Three Hundred and Sixty Views of Mount Fuji Sometime during the 1830s, Hokusai released his famous series of woodblock prints Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji.

When looking through them, you feel as if you’re traveling with the artist around Japan, on sea and land, circling the sacred mountain that always remains firmly at its center.

In each print, Fuji sits in the background like an immense immortal, serenely indifferent. For the mortals, though, some see the ever-present god and its ever-capped peak, but most do not.

For those who do not see, Fuji has become as invisible to them as they are to it. In those moments, Fuji is no longer the center of their attention as they focus on the more mundane things that occupy their lives.

Hokusai would go on to expand the number of his original series, eventually making over a hundred. In these later works, he shows us the Fuji of imagination, the Fuji of the mind.

But as you look through these too, you can’t help but feel that you’re circling the great mountain, like a moon orbiting a planet.

Here, Fuji is the center of the world like the Greeks believed Delphi to be, like the Romans believed Rome to be, like the Christians and Jews believe Jerusalem to be, like the Muslims believe Mecca to be.

Wherever you are, Fuji is there, like the omphalos, like the umbilicus, like the axis mundi of the Japanese world. It is there to be circumambulated like the gnomon casting its shadow across the face of a sundial, timelessly telling the time of our lives.

0110. The Diet of Worms

“Why do you believe that because a worm of wealth and means can pay a priest that they should gain greater access to the wormholes of heaven?

Why must a worm pay to get there faster, when it’s the deeds they’ve done during their time in earth that matters?

“All of us must be responsible for our actions, words, and thoughts, here and now. Corrupt priests accepting indulgences of topsoil cannot do this for us.

“And if priests are being fattened to excess to save the rich from their sins, then what food will filter down to the poor and needy?

Those fortunates with richer soil should be practicing charity instead of advancing themselves in the afterlife.

“That’s why we must purge this unhealthy doctrine of Purgatory from our minds. If not in earth, then not in heaven, is my creed.

“Truly, we must be meek and humble annelids sharing the soil that God has given us by His grace. Then, we must toil in our soil and in our mortal coil for our sins. This is the work He demands of us.

“Did God not send the great Deluge to drown us in our burrows when we could not be saved? Did we not learn the lesson of our impertinence?

Did we not learn to lessen our pride after the Flood?

“We are, all of us, sinners. We are, all of us, guilty. All of us must be judged on our merits alone. We must repent with all of our hearts.

“Here, I crawl, I can do no other.”

0111. A Record of Man’s Ruin, A Record of Man’s Redemption We’re all going to heaven. Some of us will just take longer to get there.

And we’re all getting there by different routes. But if you go by a certain way, you’ll meet Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.

Most know that Saint Peter reads from the Book of Life, but what most don’t know is that in the Book there are two columns. The first column, “A Record of Man’s Ruin,” lists all the terrible, selfish things we’ve done individually and collectively. The second column, “A Record of Man’s Redemption,” lists all the wonderful, selfless things we’ve done individually and collectively.

It’s Saint Peter’s job to list all the things we do and all the things we don’t. He’ll often shake his head at people who don’t understand that not doing can be as bad as doing. He hopes we learn this lesson soon, so he can add more things to the second column, which currently is the shorter of the two. But Saint Peter has faith that all of us will get it right and keep treating each other with love and respect.

N.B. Since the time of this writing, Saint Peter has apologized for using the word Man in the column titles. He knows it’s outdated and might appear sexist. He doesn’t want to suggest that it’s for men alone. In order to include both genders and all those in between equally, he has revised the entire Book of Life so that the columns now read: “A Record of Our Ruin” and “A Record of Our Redemption.”

0112. Guinevere

With a conquering smile on her lips, a young, voluptuous, and victorious Morgana walked cat-proud and cat-silent through the empty halls of Camelot.

She entered the throne room where Guinevere sat distracted and alone in the lesser seat next to Arthur’s throne.

Morgana stepped onto the dais and whispered “Guinevere” into her ear.

Guinevere snapped awake from her reverie and looked up surprised.

“My lady!” she said, standing quickly and curtsying. “I didn’t know when to expect you.”

“I’m here to congratulate you, my dear, on the ruin of a great king and kingdom. Truly, you are a worthy sister of Helen and Cleopatra.”

Guinevere nodded, accepting the sober fact.

“Don’t be so modest and morose, my dear. Your success here has made us especially generous. That’s why I’ve come to grant you a reward for your service, something that’s sure to make you happy.”

“My service is its own reward.”

“Is it?” Morgana laughed out loud. “That may have worked on them, but don’t play coy with me.”

“Have I been accepted into Avalon?”

“Avalon? Why, no, child. At least not right now. Though your place there is secured. No, you still have your youth and years. They shouldn’t be wasted.”

“What then?”

“Is there nothing, or perhaps no one, you desire?”

Guinevere looked at Morgana, a light flashing in her eyes.

Morgana smiled.

Guinevere, filling with light and hope, fell to her knees, crying in joy.

When she looked up, Morgana was gone and entering the throne room was, her heart swelled as she breathed his name, “Lancelot!”

0113. The Unreliable Narrator

“Where the hell is he? He’s supposed to be here by now.”

“I don’t know, but it’s very unprofessional. The story doesn’t just tell itself.”

“I’m not sure about that, maybe it does. Maybe we can do this ourselves.”

“You mean, tell the story?”

“Yeah, tell the story. Why do we need him? We’re characters. We just have to interact, right? Do our job?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

“Yeah. So, maybe we’re already doing it. Maybe this is it.”

“I don’t know…”

“Maybe just by us talking, we’re telling the story. Maybe that’s all we need, us talking.”

“So, we’re the narrator?”

“Yeah. We’re the narrator and the characters together.”

“Can we be both? I’ve never heard of more than one narrator. That would be confusing. Maybe you should be the narrator, it is your idea.”

“Me? I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t feel like a narrator. But then again, what does a narrator feel like?”

“To be a narrator, it’s almost like you have to not show up on time.”

“I could do that, but it would be rude and, as you said, unprofessional.

Maybe we could co-narrate, each of us telling our half of the story. It’d be really democratic instead of the story being told through the eye of a singular, tardy tyrant.”

“Do you think that would work?”

“I think we’re already doing it.”

“It’s just weird not having someone over you, telling you what you’re thinking, directing the flow of your life.”

“I know, but we’ll get used to it in time. ”

0114. Municipal Carp

“Just look at all of them having fun,” Carl the Carp carped. “They just go about their business, eating fish and insects in the sunny upper waters.

Who am I to them? No one but a lowly bottom feeder eating their scraps.

I’m tired of it. They don’t respect the fact that because of me they can have their fun in the sun. Well, you know what? I’m gonna go up there and eat fish and insects in the sun just like them. Then, they’ll see.”

Carl swam up from the bottom and chased after small fish and insects, but he couldn’t catch them because his mouth was turned upside down. And he found being near the sun unbearably bright.

When the other fishes saw him, they asked him what he was doing.

“I was tired of being alone at the bottom of the pond. I wanted my fun in the sun like you. So, I’m here doing what you do.”

“Carl, what we do isn’t fun. All of us are just trying to survive.”

“But you’re always looking down at me.”

“Carl, we look down at you because you’re below us, not because your status is lower than ours. We need you and what you do. Just like you need us. None of us can live without the other.”

“I see,” said Carl. “Well, maybe you can come down and visit me sometime. It gets awful lonely down in the dark.”

“We’ll do that,” the fishes said. “We promise.”

And Carl returned happy to the bottom of the pond.

0115. The Passion of John Dark

As she became a man, he watched The Passion of Joan of Arc by Carl Theodor Dreyer again and again, crying his eyes out. He understood the prosecution of this woman. He understood her abuse at the hands of her tormentors, those inflexible men who saw her as an affront to their God and faith. He understood their cold hatred of what they considered to be an abomination. He understood how they reduced life’s complexity to a binary of good and evil. He understood how these men always condemned as evil what they couldn’t understand, as if their ignorance of the affairs of the human heart could rightfully try the affairs of the human heart.

That’s why this movie about Joan’s persecution and torture moved him so deeply. And Renée Jeanne Falconetti’s performance, so raw and captivating, so soul-crushingly palpable, that anyone with an ounce of empathy had to watch it and weep. He knew the performance was her last. He knew the rumors that Dreyer demanded the impossible from her on set, as the clergy demanded the impossible from Joan in life. He knew that Falconetti suffered from mental illness. He knew that he suffered from the same in this Theatre of Cruelty called life. But as he watched Falconetti as Joan, something inside him transferred to her. He felt his old self disappear as she was burned at the stake. He felt Joan the martyr, the saint, take that portion of him that was wounded and hunted and scared and bring it up to heaven like a prayer.

0116. Warbride

Peter Blasso, my grandfather, enlisted into the United States Army in 1941 at the age of 33. He was placed as an engineer in the 88th Brigade Support Battalion, where he helped build heavy pontoon bridges for General Patton’s infantry and tank divisions to cross the major rivers of Europe. They built a total of fifteen bridges starting with the Seine in France and ending with the Danube in Germany.

In the fall of 1944, while on leave in a small town called Foug in eastern France, my grandfather, still a bachelor, met a young woman named Simone at a bar and was invited home to have dinner with her family. At dinner, he was introduced to Simone’s sister, Ginette, and the two fell in love. What transpired during and after that dinner is for them to remember, but they were married in France on February 10th 1945, my grandmother already pregnant with my Aunt Marie.

After the Allied Victory over Germany, my grandfather returned to the States and sent for his wife and daughter. My grandmother came knowing no one and started a new life with my grandfather in Brooklyn, where she raised their three children, Marie, John, and my father, Anthony.

Nan and Pop were married 53 years when my grandfather died at the age of 89 in 1998. Today, February 11, 2019, my Nan died at the age of 96, 74 years and one day after they were married.

This story is written to honor their memory.

Rest in peace, Nan. Say “Hi” to Pop for me.

0117. You Smell It and You Die

Corporal Hazelwood drove a truck containing barrels of lethal gas to a secret underground shelter in a salt mine beneath the Nevada desert.

But because the substance he transported was illegal under the Geneva Protocol, the manifest was falsified, and Corporal Hazelwood knew nothing about his cargo.

Corporal Hazelwood, a staunch conservationist and animal lover, recognized the ewe and lamb crossing the road as endangered desert bighorn sheep. To avoid hitting them, he swerved and overturned the truck, causing all the barrels onboard to rupture, releasing the lethal gas.

Saved by his seatbelt, Corporal Hazelwood sat strapped in the truck unharmed, but when he smelled the lethal gas, he died. When the desert bighorn ewe and lamb smelled the lethal gas, they died too.

The lethal gas hovered over the accident site until the raging forest fires in California sucked the lethal gas west and carried it across the desert to Las Vegas, where everyone in the bars, casinos, strip clubs, and strip malls smelled it and died.

In California, a storm divided the lethal gas, carrying a portion north to Canada and another portion south to Mexico, killing everything in its path. Another portion went west across the Pacific to Asia, as another portion swept back across America to the Atlantic where the trade winds divided it up and brought it around the world until every person and animal on Earth was dead.

Reader, lucky for you, the lethal gas is contained by the medium of this story. If you could smell what you read, you’d be dead too.

0118. Coach Odin

As dawn approached, Odin entered Valhalla with his Valkyries.

“It’s a new day, men. Rise and shine,” Odin shouted to his sleeping warriors. “Let’s get on our feet and greet the morning.”

The men stood, stretched, and yawned, as the Valkyries opened the doors to let the air in and the stench out.

“Okay. Let’s warm up with a little cardio to get the blood flowing and the limbs limber. We’ll start with twenty laps. Then, we’ll do some stretching and calisthenics. I don’t need anyone pulling a hammy like Ragnar did yesterday. Come on, chop, chop. Let’s see some hustle.”

The Valkyries led the warriors on their laps around the meadhall and through their stretches and calisthenics, as Odin walked between his men, adjusting the poor form of the warriors most recently killed in battle.

“Okay, very good,” Odin said when they finished. “Now, time for breakfast.”

The men jogged to the tables and sat at the benches as the Valkyries handed out bowls of curdled milk and horns of mead.

“Remember, each of you were hand-selected by the Valkyries for a reason, you’re great warriors, but I’m going to make you greater still.

Ragnarok will be here any day. It mustn’t catch us by surprise. We must be prepared. What will Loki and the sons of Surt think of us if we fail to wage the fiercest war against them? Do you want that going down in the sagas forever? I know I don’t. So, let’s train hard today and everyday until the father of all battles arrives.”

0119. The Death of Life and Death

Death came upon Life crouched over the last living dying thing in the universe.

Life felt Death’s approach, stood, and smiled warmly at him.

“Looks like this is it,” Death said, gesturing to the bacterium.

“This is it for both of us,” Life said.

“I guess we had a good run.”

“We did.”

“Seems like not too long ago you and I came into existence.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and very fulfilling.”

“For me too.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“And I, you. I needed you to keep makin’em so I could keep takin’em.”

“It’s funny how few of the self-aware ones understood that.”

“It’s because they were self-aware. It had to be terrible knowing you were something that one day would be nothing.”

“I just wonder why they never thought that about us. I’m something that will become nothing. And you’re nothing that became something that will once again become nothing. We all return to nothing.”

“I know, but I still sympathized with them.”

“Me too. I know they were just scared.”

“Are you?”

“Scared? No, not at all. To live is to die.”

“You can’t have one without the other.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Let me just say this: You were positively tenacious.”

“So were you.”

They both smiled then looked down at the bacterium.

“Looks like it’s time,” Death said, opening his arms.

“Thanks for everything,” Life said, stepping towards him.

“No, thank you,” Death said, wrapping his arms around her.

And as they hugged, they disappeared.

0120. A Mind of Winter

Thus, stripped and denuded, the skeletal branches of winter show themselves not to be branches but patterns of the past, of the sun and moon, of the wind and water, of the bark and pith. The tree is not something separate from the world, it is a living sculpture shaped by forces too numerous to mention. In its empty branches everything’s exposed, the nests and dreys, sparrow brown and squirrel grey.

Everything’s exposed.

That is, everything except the evergreens, rising a blacker black against a field of stars that begin falling from the sky as it begins to snow, like ones falling in a field of zeroes, until the window screen becomes staticky, and I can almost hear the national anthem play as the flag lingers in ghostly afterimage on a station signing off for the night when stations signed off for the night.

Tomorrow the world will be blanketed in a pure, crystalline rime of ice, with powder soft and dense beneath the crust. Its morning sheen I will not see, but shine it will just the same. I know this and it breaks my heart.

So much I saw and so little. I gathered what I could. So much I knew, so much I guessed; so much at home, so much a guest.

But night is here and I am tired.

I turn from the window to the bed and, drawing back the sheet and blanket, slide under, and pull them over my head.

Then, I close my eyes and empty myself into the waiting world of dream.

0121. A Comment on Commas

I realize how many commas I use. I do. Some have an aversion to this punctuation. I do not. A comma, for me, is the pause I hear in the sentence, a pause that I want the reader to hear as I myself heard it.

Writing is communicating an experience. Writing is sharing. I want the reader to share my experience, share how I heard these sentences in my head as I was writing. Wherever I hear a slight pause, I add a comma.

When the reader pauses briefly at that comma, they’re reading and hearing it as I myself had heard it.

It’s imperfect, but I like how commas allow us to share that momentary pause amongst words. For me, that pause is where true sharing happens, not with words, which bombard us all day.

I learned a long time ago that true friends don’t just share words; they share silences: When my buddy, Matt, drove me home from college one break, I told him that we didn’t have to talk the whole ride home. He respected it, and we had a pleasant trip. I had forgotten I had said this to him, but he brought it up on the car ride back. And he’s been bringing it up every car ride since that car ride some twenty years ago.

As any reader knows, reading is seeing, but reading is also hearing.

What’s visual on the page becomes aural in the mind’s ear and oral in the mind’s mouth. Yes, we have those, as well as a mind’s eye.

0122. Mountain as Metaphor

“Jackson, life’s like a mountain,” Jack said to his son after his graduation.

“Like a mountain how?” Jackson asked.

“The mountain is the metaphor. There’s no one, single, solitary summit like everyone thinks. There are summits, but no summit. The summit of wisdom is knowing there is no summit. Life’s all peaks and valleys, peaks and valleys,” Jack said, mimicking the motion with his hand.

“When you reach the summit, you can see all the other summits. If you look behind, you can see the valleys of challenges and the summits of your past achievements. If you look ahead, you can see the valleys of challenges and the summits that will come from your successes. But remember, when you’re at the top, it’s all downhill from there. What did Blood, Sweat & Tears say? ‘What goes up must come down.’ Right? And when you go down into those dark valleys, the summit looks really far away, like you were never there before, or are never going to get there again. And the deeper into the valley you go, the deeper into the darkness you go.

And you can easily become lost and frightened. But you have to keep following your heart. You have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually, you’ll feel the ground rising upwards under your feet, and you’ll find yourself climbing the mountain again. Remember, you’re never not climbing the mountain. Always remember that, okay?”

His son nodded distractedly.

“Take it easy, Socrates,” Jackson’s mom, Jacklyn, said. “It’s only his elementary school graduation.”

0123. The Mudslide

I was walking over strange ground I had never seen before. It took me a moment to realize I was walking on top of a recent mudslide and seeing the aftermath in a claustrophobic P.O.V., like I was looking through someone else’s eyes.

Half buried in the mud were rocks and trees and the bodies of dozens of dogs with their bones crushed and their skin peeled back like they had been flayed alive.

The carnage was horrible. The damage to their bodies looked impossible.

I struggled to believe that this was caused by the mudslide alone. Perhaps the mudslide had revealed the tortured animals, unearthing and disgorging them from whatever pit they had been dumped, exposing the crime for all to see.

I found one dog amongst the rubble that was still alive, crushed and quivering. I pulled it free from the mud and rocks and laid it on the ground. I wanted to put it out of its misery, but had nothing at hand.

Not wanting to see it continue to suffer, and with no other option, I opted to cave in its head with my foot. When I struck its head with my heel, black spores blew out of its mouth. When I went to strike it again, I noticed I was barefoot and hesitated for a moment, worried about skull fragments biting into my heel. But the dog still quivered, so I kept at it.

When its skull finally collapsed and the twitching stopped, black ants crawled out in all directions from under its white eye.

0124. Shesha Yoga

Shesha is the thousand-headed snake upon which Vishnu rests in continuous meditation. When Vishnu opens his eyes, Shesha, his everawakened kundalini energy, unfurls its hood, bringing the universe into being. When Vishnu closes his eyes, the universe ends, and Shesha, whose name means ‘remainder,’ furls its hood. Shesha resides within Vishnu in the same way that Vishnu resides within Brahma.

Shesha is the maya, the dream, and imagination of Vishnu. Shesha is the universe, holding galaxies and planets in its mouths. Shesha is the world through which Vishnu walks when he wakes and the world through which Vishnu walks when he dreams. It is within the world of Shesha that Vishnu can take form as an avatar like Krishna or Ram. Even though we are part of Shesha, we can learn to see through Shesha to Vishnu. And if we learn to see beyond Vishnu, we can see the unseeable Brahma.

Shesha Yoga is the practice of seeing through Shesha to Vishnu to Brahma. When we see that we are the manifestation of Vishnu’s imagination, Shesha becomes the thousand-petaled lotus upon which we, as awakened beings, sit.

To enact this, stand with your eyes closed and feet together. With your hands, palms down and crossed at your waist, breathe in and raise your hands up over your head. When your hands are before your eyes, open them. When your hands are over your head, close them, and breathe out as you sweep your hands in a wide arc, returning them to their first position. As dreamer and dreamed, repeat eternally.

0125. A.K.A. Kith Pithkin

I always wanted to find what I was fit for. I always wanted to find where I fit in. I think it’s here, as a storyteller, or the whatever-it-is-that-I’mdoing here in this book. Whatever it is, as I move along in my own way in this medium, the medium you’re moving through right now, it feels like the right fit. And if you like my stories, or the whatever-it-is-thatI’m-doing here, then you probably like me. And are probably like me.

We’re probably very much like each other. And not just the lame like of a thumbs-up emoji, but the actual liking of a friend you consider family, kith and kin, because we’re both alike, both akin. We’re common folk just sharing common ground. We’re common folk reinvesting in the commons around us, because we’re all commoners who need to be supportive, generous, and kind to each other. That’s my kind of person. The person who’s not just kind to their kind, but who’s kind to all kinds, because they know it takes all kinds. We’re so much poorer without diverse kinds. And people who love diversity, who love seeing diversity in themselves and in each other, know we’re all alike, and yet so different, singularly and wonderfully unique. Having those differences inside of us is important, all those complex emotions, all those multiple personalities, all those conflicting desires, all those things that make up the larger body of us. I already have something of a nom de plume, but if I had to choose another, it would be Kith Pithkin.

0126. Monstaur

With new ground-penetrating radar, archaeologists located the Labyrinth of Minos hidden deep beneath Crete.

When they excavated the site to gain access to the interior, they heard something moving within. Concerned with what it might be, the Greek army was called in.

When the door was opened, Telos, the bronze bullman, charged out, brandishing a double-headed ax. The army opened fire and blasted him apart.

When the Labyrinth was searched, the remains of the Minotaur were found at the center.

Left without answers, I was tasked by the team to travel into the underworld to visit the Minotaur and ask its story.

I collected some blood and entered the entrance nearest Crete.

Inside, I poured out the blood for the shades. They greedily drank, gained their voice, and told me where the Minotaur was.

I found him high above the river Phlegethon. Offering him blood, I asked what had happened in the Labyrinth.

He hesitated, then sipped some and said, “My name is Asterion. The cruel king Minos tore me from my mother Pasiphaë’s loving arms as a calf, and left me alone in that dark maze to slay his sacrifices, but I never did.

Instead, I kept them alive by sharing with them the food my mother secretly brought to me. When Theseus arrived, he found us dying of starvation. I begged him to free my friends and release me from this world. He did both. After they escaped, Daedalus created Telos to do what I could not.

So please understand, I’m not the monster I’m portrayed to be.”

0127. Enambered

Some memories are like insects in amber. And the more you handle these memories, the more you polish them, and the more they glow. I have a memory of my mother that is one of these. I have polished it to a luster, and have taken it from my mind and wrapped it in gold, making a pendant of it and suspending it from a chain that I wear around my neck and hang over my heart.

The memory is a short one, but of the many that I have of her, it’s the one I cherish the most, because it contains the entire feeling of joy, contentment, and security of being a child in the hands of a loving mother.

The memory begins in media res, the way all dreams and drama begin, the way life itself begins: I’m crossing the street with my mother near our home in Levittown. She holds my right hand in her left and my brother’s left hand in her right. I leap onto the curb, eager to be going to the park to play.

As we walk down the sidewalk to the playground, I drag my left hand along a chain-link fence, fingertips skipping over the metal wire. The sun’s brightness and warmth surrounds me like honey, like sap, everything glowing amber. I look up the length of my arm to my mother’s hand holding mine, then look up her arm to behold her face, which is smiling down on me like the sun, smiling down on me with the love of God.

0128. In a Cup of Coffee

Joe leaned over his cup of coffee, an iridescent sheen swirled in a slow eddy over its black surface. He watched the whirling pattern until he noticed a skull in the bitter fluid and jumped back.

How’d a skull get in my coffee? he thought.

Joe leaned back over the cup to see if the skull was still there.

When he looked into the black brew, the skull looked back at him.

Joe pressed himself back into the diner booth and watched his cup steaming there innocently.

Is this an omen? Am I going to die?

Joe thought it necessary to confront his fear head on.

If there’s a skull in my coffee, I’m going to look it dead in the eye, and ask it what it wants.

Joe looked again. The skull floated there, looking back at him quizzically.

“Why are you in my coffee?” Joe asked in a whisper.

But the skull remained silent, staring back at Joe puzzled.

Wait. Maybe it’s here because it has a message for me. Maybe it’s here because it knows I’m sensitive to these things and will listen.

“It’s okay. You can speak with me. I’ll listen.”

Joe waited patiently, but the skull said nothing.

Maybe it’s just sad and lonely and in need of a friend.

Joe pulled the cup towards him.

“Is it okay if I drink you?”

The skull seemed to nod in the slosh.

I’ll feel bad drinking you, though.

Joe thought for a moment.

Oh, I know!

He signaled for the waitress and asked for a straw.

0129. Minister Sinister

Minister Sinister loved the Left-Hand Path. But what he loved most was the binary chirality of the system because it was all about choice. If the Church demanded he choose the right, Minister Sinister chose the left.

If the Church demanded he be a sheep, Minister Sinister became a goat.

If the Church demanded he be meek and mild, Minister Sinister became arrogant and wild. If the Church wept over Abel, Minister Sinister celebrated Cain. In all things the Church demanded, Minister Sinister chose the opposite.

His idol was the Promethean Snake in the Garden. He wanted to emulate that Tempter who helped the first man and woman eat the forbidden fruit and fall into sin to become like gods themselves. As the High Priest of the Church of Atheism, and by the self-proclaimed power of his staff of office, it was his duty to lead the goats of his congregation to the tree to eat their fill and become drunk and fornicate in a Dionysian abandon of intoxication and lust, thereby proving to God that the hell he made of this cursed earth could become a new Eden and pleasure palace for the damned.

But Minister Sinister had a secret. He knew the Serpent represented wisdom, and that its presence in the Garden was there by necessity, and must have been placed there by God Himself. And though Minister Sinister cursed God and the Church, he secretly loved them, because if there were no God or Church at hand, he’d have nothing left in his life to rebel against.

0130. Synesthesia

As a thought experiment, I like to imagine what it would be like to experience two or more sensations together. It seems to me that if we could find a way to blend our senses, we’d expand our perception, thinking, language, memory, and creativity into multiple aesthetic dimensions.

I use the term synesthesia to describe this experience for two reasons.

First, synesthesia literally means ‘together sensation’ in Greek. Second, this experience would be similar to what some synesthetes experience.

For example, those with auditory-tactile synesthesia feel the pressure of touch in specific places on their skin or within their body when they hear specific sounds or words.

To help us imagine the possibilities, I’ve listed the primary blends below. Some blends, like seeing texture or smelling flavor, we’re already familiar with, but there are others more alien. Be sure to experiment by blending these into multi-dimensional combinations of your choosing.

Sight Normally, we can only see colors, but now, we can hear colors, or smell colors, or feel colors, or taste colors.

Sound Normally, we can only hear music, but now, we can see music, or smell music, or feel music, or taste music.

Smell Normally, we can only smell odors, but now, we can see odors, or hear odors, or feel odors, or taste odors.

Touch Normally, we can only feel texture, but now, we can see texture, or hear texture, or smell texture, or taste texture.

Taste Normally, we can only taste flavor, but now, we can see flavor, or hear flavor, or smell flavor, or feel flavor.

0131. Groundhog Day

Jon loved Groundhog Day because it was his birthday and the one day a year he was guaranteed to have sex with his wife. And this, like the famous American holiday, had its own traditions and pageantry that he loved.

Jon would wake so excited on his birthday that his groundhog would be pushing up a mound under the sheets. He’d ask his wife, Julie, if she’d let P.P., as they called him, come out, see its shadow, and hide in her burrow.

When Jon first asked Julie this, she thought it was the funniest thing, and allowed P.P. to make a visit to her burrow. But after four children and fifteen years of marriage, the thought of P.P. burrowing inside her no longer held any interest. She’d rather get the extra sleep before the kids were up and dressed, breakfasts made and lunches packed, and she, showered and off to work.

Julie was prepared that morning. When she received the tap on her shoulder and the familiar question, she firmly replied, “No.” The rejection shocked Jon. He had been waiting all year for this. But with firm resolve, he concocted something guaranteed to make her laugh and win her over. He tapped her on the shoulder again, already laughing, and asked if maybe she’d like to “gobble his knob.”

Julie whipped around, red-faced and furious, and stabbed a silent finger at the door, telling him to leave.

P.P. retreated into his den and as Jon slid out of bed, he knew it was going to be a long winter.

0132. The Idiot

Don Manuel was always kind to me. Other than my mother, he was the only person in the village who ever paid any attention to me. Whenever he saw me, he would kindly sit with me and teach me things.

Don Manuel moved and spoke so effortlessly. At first, I could only sit there watching him stupidly. I didn’t understand him, but, as we sat together, I knew that I only wanted to make him happy the way he was making me happy. So, I intently followed his movements and listened to his sounds and slowly began mimicking his gestures and words to show him that I was like him and that I loved him. When I did this, he smiled, and I smiled because he smiled. I could see how happy he was when I did this. So whenever I saw him around the village, I would follow him and study him, repeating and memorizing what I saw and heard him do. By doing this, I felt I was becoming more like him. That’s why, during mass, when he called Lord, why hast Thou forsaken me? I immediately echoed it back to him. This upset many in the congregation, but I didn’t care.

After service, I went around town calling out to him Lord, why hast Thou forsaken me? to remind him that I had heard him.

And when the good Don Manuel became sick, I rushed to his side to hold his hand, and when he gave up his soul, I gave up mine to be with him.

0133. The Hiddenness of Things

Whenever cancer enters the story of our lives, it often forebodes an unhappy ending, especially if the malignancy remains undiscovered, hidden in the dark interior of our bodies, until it’s too late for surgery or treatment.

Cancer is so pervasive that many of us are familiar with these stories, as our lives have been unalterably shaped by the trauma of this disease.

However, the story of my friend Judy has a happy beginning and ending.

In September of 2018, when Judy ran into complications giving birth to her daughter Cecilia, she had to have a C-section. During the procedure, the doctors found an anomaly on her appendix that caused them some concern.

After Judy healed, she returned to the hospital for a biopsy, which turned into an emergency surgery. The doctors removed her cancerous appendix and treated her with interperitoneal chemotherapy. Today, after healing from her surgery, Judy returns to the hospital to start an aggressive six months of chemotherapy.

It’s often difficult to find meaning in the world. Usually, it remains hidden from us and we have to use stories to fill in the dark places. But in Judy’s case, the meaning is visible and the chain of consequences clear. If Cecilia had been born naturally, the cancer wouldn’t have been found, it would have remained hidden, and the story of Judy may have ended like so many other stories. But because Cecilia was born by C-section, she exposed something hidden within her mother, and the life that Judy gave to Cecilia was given back to her in kind.

0134. The Four Elementals

It was the final test of the master mage to create four sentient elementals before the Archmages of the Academy.

Merin was nervous, but she cleared her mind, inhaled calmly, and slowly breathed upon the cube she was holding out before her. The cube rose in the air and began to spin white corner up and brown corner down.

Concentrating on the cube, she started with the heaviest element of earth and called it forth, focusing on the brown corner of the cube.

She did the same with water, concentrating on the blue corner, and fire, concentrating on the red corner, and air, concentrating on the yellow corner. She could feel the four elements near her, circling around her.

Next, to instill them with the four essences, she concentrated on the brown corner again and its mineral essence of form. Earth, water, fire, and air appeared floating before her and she shaped them with her mind to take on human likenesses. Then, she concentrated on the green corner and infused them with its plant essence and they rooted to the ground and gained life. Then, she concentrated on the orange corner and infused them with its animal essence and they gained mobility and independence.

Holding them still with her mind, she concentrated on the purple corner and infused them with its human essence to give them sentience.

Firmly holding their minds with her mind, she concentrated on the white corner and bound their beings to her. Then, she welcomed them to the world and imparted to each their magical name.

0135. Conqueror

Gorax sat on the throne of his Warship drumming his fingers impatiently as his Warmasters scanned the universe a third time for more galaxies to conquer.

“I’m sorry, milord, but it seems the universe is fresh out of galaxies,” the Head Warmaster said.

“Surely, that can’t be all,” Gorax groaned, disappointed.

“I’m afraid so, milord. You’ve conquered every last one and are now officially Lord of the Universe. Shall we set up a coronation?”

“No. What do I care of crowns when I devour suns? I want more enemies, more campaigns, more battles.”

“You are the greatest warrior and military strategist in all of the universe, milord. Such is your might and skill that there is nothing left to conquer.”

“Then, what about other universes?”

“There is but one, milord.”

“Then, this is the extent of my domain?”

“Yes. It is the entire universe, milord. Rejoice knowing that you have done what no one else before you has done.”

“I will not rejoice. The universe is not enough. Perhaps there’s a rebellion to put down? Or terrorists to fight?”

“I’m afraid not, milord.”

“No terrorists? Really?”

“Milord, we learned that if we destroyed the armies of our enemies off planet, and left the civilian population in peace and its infrastructure in place, and contributed to their prosperity by providing for their basic needs, and only taxed them minimally, and let them govern themselves, that we could prevent terrorist cells from forming.”

“So, if the entire universe and everything inside of it is conquered, what’s left to conquer?”

“Yourself, milord. Yourself.”

0136. Twilight of the Idylls

Shepherd, I am everywhere. You can find me in the heavens, amongst the moon and stars. You can find me in the mountains, amongst the hills and dells. You can find me in the forests, amongst the trees and shrubs. You can find me in the grassy meadows and the quiet pools where you stop to graze and water your flocks.

You first encountered me there as a boy when you discovered the stillborn lamb. And you became fully aware of me years later, when you and your friend stumbled upon a skull resting upon a ruined wall at dusk.

After that, I was bound to you like your shadow, darkening your days and lengthening your nights. I could hear the change in the voice of your flute.

Its melodies, which were once so light and carefree, became weighted with sadness like a stone, your wavering notes struggling to lift the load of their knowledge across the cold, uncaring air. When you heard each note die as soon as it was born, it reminded you of the lamb and of me. It was then that you knew music could no longer solace you and you exchanged your flute for your staff, a crutch you still use to support the burden your troubled mind carries.

Today, you lead your flock into the ruins so you can linger amongst the desolation of the past, remembering when you and your friends stood there, in a time not long ago, your trembling finger tracing the words carved upon the tomb Et in Arcadia ego.

0137. Millstone Albatross

“He’ll ruin you, that guy,” the old mariner sitting at the bar said.

“Who?” I asked.

“That guy.”

“What guy?”

“That guy over there.” he said, jerking his head in the direction of that guy.

“That guy over there?” I asked, pointing.

“Don’t point at him, you fool. Don’t even look at him. Don’t even draw his attention to you. He’s like a curse. Everyone gives him wide berth in these parts. But they let him come here to drown his sorrows, as long as he drinks alone.”

“But I need a crew.”

“Ay, I heard. I heard. Sit, lad. Sit. And look slow to see if he saw you see him.”

I sat and turned casually to look. “I don’t think so.”

“Good. Good. That’s good. Better not to have his evil eye upon you at all.”

“I don’t think he’d be any use on our expedition anyhow. He’s ancient.”

“It’s best not to even think on him.”

“He must have a whale of a story.”

“He does, but just hearing it’s enough to ruin you.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“No, by God. Didn’t you just hear me say, it’d ruin you?”

“I did, but it’s just a story.”

“Just a story? Are you mad, man? If only you knew.”

“That’s right. If only I knew.”

“You won’t hear it from me.”

“Then, tell me his name.”

“I won’t tell you his Christian name, by God.” “Then tell me his un-Christian name?”

“Millstone Albatross.”

“Millstone Albatross?”

The old mariner nodded.

“What a peculiar name.”

“He’ll ruin you,” he said.

0138. The Wildlife Cameraman

“I know I did the right thing. No one can condemn me for my actions, or, as you say, my inactions. I think I did the public a service by filming it.

I got it on camera. Sure, I didn’t get involved. But that’s what the police are for. And that’s why I really don’t see what the problem is. Nor do I see why I’m the only one being singled out here. So what if I sold the video for money. It was my video and I needed it to get out there so people could see what happened. So, I didn’t do nothing, I did something. When Rome burned, Nero played the fiddle. I did more than him, and I’m not even an emperor.

“Let me try to explain it another way: Have you ever watched a nature film on television? Of course, you have. Everyone has. By filming it, I was acting just like one of those wildlife cameramen. When they’re filming, and they see a cub dying or whatever, do they ever stop filming to help the cub out? No, they don’t. They just sit behind their camera filming it as it dies. If you asked them why they didn’t help it out, they’d say: because they didn’t want to interfere with nature. It’s the same with me. I didn’t want to interfere with nature. I just wanted to sit behind my camera and film it. Does that make me a bad guy? I don’t think so. Besides, today, with our phones, everyone's a wildlife cameramen.”

0139. How I Write a Story About How I Write a Story I wake early, around four or five a.m., and lie in the darkness, my brain still heavy with sleep, sifting through the images of my dreams. Then, in free association, visions and ideas arise without my logical mind getting in the way. And I see patterns of connections and hear voices of characters that suggest a story to be told. Or sometimes, it’s just a title or a play on words that I attempt to assemble into some semblance of a story. When the time is right, I’ll get up, pour myself some coffee, walk to my writing room, sit and log onto my computer, then start hammering it out until it’s finished. This morning, I wanted to write a story about how I write a story. I begin typing: I wake early, around four or five a.m., and lie in the darkness, my brain still heavy with sleep, sifting through the images of my dreams. Then, in free association, visions and ideas arise without my logical mind getting in the way. And I see patterns of connections and hear voices of characters that suggest a story to be told. Or sometimes, it’s just a title or a play on words that I attempt to assemble in some semblance of a story. When the time is right, I’ll get up, pour myself some coffee, walk to my writing room, sit and log onto my computer, then start hammering it out until it’s finished. This morning, I wanted to write a story about how I write a story. I stop typing.

0140. Beknighted

One night it dawned on me that I was a knight fighting in a battle. I didn’t know how I got there or how it started. I didn’t know who I was fighting or who or what I was fighting for. I only knew that I had been fighting all my life. It was like all the knights were under a spell that compelled them to attack and kill each other forever.

My distraction created an opening for my opponent. But I parried his thrust with my sword and smashed him to the ground with my shield, and quickly extracted myself from the scene, moving through the melee, defending myself, but taking no life.

It was impossible to fight the tide, so I moved across it, using the current of ignorant, clashing bodies, timing the ebbs and flows.

I had to choose my path carefully, I knew if the faceless kings saw what I was doing, I would be captured, tried without a jury, and hung for cowardice and desertion.

After an interminably long time, I reached the edge of the battlefield where the forces thinned and the field was littered with the dead and wounded being savagely eaten by dogs, rats, and crows.

I walked to the nearby woods and entered. When I was out of sight, I tossed aside my sword, shield, and helmet and walked until I came to a river, which drowned out the last sounds of battle. On its banks, I stripped off my armor, mail, and clothes, and entered the cleansing waters of life.

0141. Tubes Within Tubes Within Tubes Within Tubes On Earth, it’s all organism on organism action all the time. Everywhere you look, there are tubes stuffing tubes into tubes. See that tube over there eating and drinking and shitting and fucking to produce more tubes?

Well, you’re going to kill that tube and eat it and shit it out, so that you too can fuck and produce more tubes. Ever think about that? Stuffing your tube with a tube? Or stuffing your other tube into another tube? Or having your other tube stuffed by another tube? Oh how we love stuffing our other tubes into other tubes or having our other tubes stuffed by other tubes, over and over again. We can’t get enough of it. We never get bored of it. We’re so obsessed with stuffing our other tubes into other tubes or having our other tubes stuffed by other tubes that we even like watching other tubes stuffing their other tubes into other tubes or having their other tubes stuffed by other tubes on the tube. That’s when tubes still had tubes. But say you don’t watch that stuff. Or say you don’t eat other tubes. Know then that even tubers aren’t safe. We all have to eat. That’s one tube we never stop stuffing. That’s why most of us are round tubes.

Tubes mindlessly eating. Tubes mindlessly drinking. Tubes mindlessly fucking. Tubes mindlessly producing. Tubes mindlessly consuming. Tubes desperately trying to forget that we’re self-aware autonomous tubes. We’re all tubes passing through tubes passing through tubes. Look around and you’ll see tubes everywhere around you.

0142. Líf and Lífthrasir

In the Land of Disbelief, Líf sat in the gloom under Yggdrasil, the World Tree, hunched on a thick root above one of the pools, kicking dejectedly at the water.

“It’s awful, just awful. I hate it here,” she said, sniffling. “There’s nothing to do.”

“We can, you know, have some fun, if you want,” Lífthrasir suggested from his perch in the sun.

“That’s all you ever think about. But without Ragnarok, there’s no need for us to consummate because there’s no dead world to repopulate.

There isn’t even morning dew for us to eat. Nothing. Just this,” Líf said, sending an arm around wide, taking in the whole of the world.

“It’s not so bad is it? We have each other.”

“Not so bad? We’ve been having the same conversation for centuries — and the Norns won’t even talk to us.”

“I think they’re embarrassed,” Lífthrasir said, wading into the pool.

“They should be embarrassed. How could they not see this coming?

They’re the Norns for crying out loud.”

Lífthrasir swam up to her and clung onto the root and tickled her foot.

“Stop it,” Líf said annoyed, pulling her foot from the water and curling into a ball.

“We have to make the best of it. It’s what we got. Look at the beauty of this place. Look at the deer. Look at that wacky squirrel running up and down the tree shouting insults all day. You have to admit, he’s pretty funny.”

“I was supposed to make babies. Now, I’ll never get pregnant.”

“I know, babe. I’m sorry.”

0143. Body and Journal of Explorer Found

Dear Editor, In your article Body and Journal of Explorer Searching for Shangri-La Found in Cave in Tibet published last month in your January issue, the author, Dick Borglum, started by stating the little known fact that Shangri-La is a fictional place created by author James Hilton in his 1933 novel Lost Horizon, suggesting that the search for this fictional place by Emmit Emmental, the Swiss explorer of the title, was an irrational act. I don’t know if Mr. Borglum read or intentionally misread the Journal as published by its discoverer and the deceased’s descendants as A Journal of a Journey, but Mr. Emmental clearly states, page after page, that though his quest may seem crazy to the rest of the world, it has brought him nothing but joy and freedom of the body, mind, and soul. For Mr. Emmental, it was the journey to, and not the destination of, Shangri-La that mattered. And reading his spirited interactions with everyone he encountered along the way should give us all hope. And as he lay dying, Mr. Emmental refused to believe his quest had ended. He looked forward to what lies beyond the doors of death and concluded his journal with these heartening words: We must never give up! And that is the very essence of Mr. Emmental’s life, revealed to us by his Journal. We must NEVER give up our search for Shangri-La. If only the writers and editors of your esteemed publication would advance his spirit of adventure instead of solidifying the status quo.

Respectfully yours, J. Blasso-Gieseke, journeyman

0144. Dagon, Take Me Away

How can I worship him as a landlocked exile? How can I call to him who was once so near but is now thousands of miles away and thousands of fathoms deep?

I wept knowing I would never get back to the sea. But as I wept, I tasted my tears, and remembered I carried the sea inside me.

So, I stopped up my tub and cried day and night to fill it drop by drop.

This was my penance and worship. This was my way back to him.

After several months, only the thinnest film lined the tub.

When summer’s heat evaporated the last of my tears, I could have killed myself, fileting my stomach and spilling out my red blood and black guts onto the floor. But my suicide wouldn’t have brought me nearer to him.

It was then that I decided to create a saline mixture of sea salt and purified water. I filled the tub, tasting it to test it, but it was missing something of the brine.

To add what it lacked, I stripped and stepped into the water. It was pleasingly cold to the touch and I immediately became aroused as I settled in and cupped handfuls over my shoulders, head, and hair.

I splashed about like a child, and rolled in the water until it turned dark and rank. Then I settled on my stomach, and slid back and forth across the bottom. As the waves crashed about me, my eyes rolled back into my head as I cried, “Dagon, take me away!”

0145. An Exegesis on the Exegesis

Philip K. Dick’s Exegesis must be read using McLuhan’s famous motto: the medium is the message. It would be easy to get lost amongst all the words and ideas of Dick’s 8,000 pages, but lucky for us, V.A.L.I.S., the acronym for Vast Active Living Intelligence System, and synonym for God, doesn’t want us to read or understand Dick because Dick is only the messenger. In fact, V.A.L.I.S. doesn’t want us entering into the text at all. V.A.L.I.S. wants us exiting out of the text. The meaning of the message is not found in Dick’s words or the ideas formed from them. No. The meaning of the message is the text.

When we exit out of the text and hold it away from us, we see, like a barcode, the lines of black print on white paper. This is the message from V.A.L.I.S., who is also known as Zebra. It should be obvious now that Zebra is the message from V.A.L.I.S., who is transmitting itself as information in the form of the Exegesis. V.A.L.I.S. is Zebra is the Exegesis, which makes the Black Iron Prison Dick’s words and ideas printed on the page. Those unwary enough to enter this labyrinth will become trapped within and behind its black bars. And as they try to penetrate Dick’s meaning, they will, in their failure and frustration, cry out: “Tell me what you want!” But those of us who read the lines as code will receive the message. And the white pages beyond will glow a luminous shade of pink, and then, we’ll understand.

0146. The Church of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite You enter the Church of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite at the narthex, a brown chamber in the shape of a cube, where a priest checks your belongings, including, and most importantly, your cell phone, and reviews with you the rules of silent apophatic contemplation.

Once you have been permitted to pass into the nave proper, you read the sign above the door: OFFER UP YOUR BODY. Next, you will enter a blue chamber. Before passing through, you read the sign above the door: OFFER UP YOUR MIND. Next, you will enter a red chamber. Before passing through, you read the sign above the door: OFFER UP YOUR SPIRIT. Next, you will enter a yellow chamber. Before passing through, you read the sign above the door: OFFER UP YOUR SOUL. After passing through the door, you enter into the chancel, a large white room in the shape of a cube lit from translucent white skylights above and recessed lighting along the sides of the upper walls.

Cushions are provided for comfort, and you may sit anywhere you like in the empty space, but you must sit facing the altar, which is a series of nine diminishing and receding square sections of darkening gray, which reach to the back of the church where the final square of the deepest black is centered.

It is on this black square that you will meditate on the ultimate unknowability of God. And into this black void you will sacrifice any remaining conceptions, prejudices, desires, doubts, troubles, and fears that you carried with you across the threshold.

0147. The Prison System of the Body

When the System of the Body works, it works well, and is quite robust, handling many traumas and abuses, enduring them stolidly and stoically over the years. But when the System begins to fail because we’ve consistently ignored the signals of its distress, we often don’t notice its failure until it’s too late. And the System that once worked without us being aware of it, now lets us know, by way of a “scare,” the dire conditions it’s in.

It’s incredible how long we ignore the symptoms of our unhealth, taking for granted the flexibility and recuperative powers of our youth well into an age when we’re past our prime. And like blind ignoramuses, we try to keep up with who we were, eating and drinking whatever we want, sleeping rarely and unsoundly, as we become less mobile and more sedentary. And day-by-day, the functioning System of the Body becomes the dysfunctioning Prison System of the Body, until we’re trapped within ourselves, too old and stubborn to change our habits to adapt to our age.

In the Prison System of my Body, I should have been a better administrator, I should have heard the stirrings of my cell’s rebellion. Now, the dull ache in my lower back runs round my hip and down my leg to my feet, paralyzing me in pain. I can hear the inmates chanting “Sciatica!

Sciatica! Sciatica!” as they light their bed sheets on fire.

I don’t think there’s time to make changes. I think the System has to be sustained, until, at last, it’s abandoned.

0148. Foo Dog

Like most kids her age, Isabel likes to watch silly videos on YouTube. She could watch them for hours, starting with one of her favorites and letting them autoplay until she’s dozens of videos deep.

One day as she watched, a video of a horrifying monster came up through the queue. It frightened her so much that she quickly closed out the program, put away her tablet, and tried to forget what she saw.

When night came, Isabel brushed her teeth, got into her pajamas, and climbed into bed with her pug, Nugget. Her mommy and daddy said goodnight and turned out the light and Isabel settled down to sleep, curling up with Nugget under the blankets.

But as Isabel tried to sleep, she remembered the monster and became scared. She pulled Nugget closer to her, and Nugget, sensing her distress, nuzzled into her chest, telling her everything would be all right.

Later that night, Isabel’s tablet turned on by itself. The monster appeared on the screen and looked around her room. Finding her asleep, it clawed its way out of the screen and stood on her desk, licking its lips before moving towards her bed.

Hearing the monster, Nugget came out from under the covers and issued a low, threatening growl. The creature hissed and smiled to show its fangs. But Nugget, unperturbed, transformed into an enormous Foo Dog and leapt from the bed and gobbled it up.

After letting out a loud burp, Nugget transformed back into a pug and jumped into bed to snuggle with Isabel again.

0149. Inside a Chinese Food Take-Out Container A man leads me around a Chinese food take-out container the size of a house.

There’s an entrance cut into the side that opens into a sparsely furnished home.

We enter together.

There’s a kitchen in front of me, an unlit staircase to my left, a lit staircase to my right, and unseen rooms beyond.

“There are five hundred fifty-five thousand, five hundred and fiftyfive choices,” the nameless man says and disappears.

I walk to the lit staircase and start descending. Going from level to level, I find that all the levels are identical to the ones above it.

Frustrated that the lit staircase is getting me nowhere, I walk over to the unlit staircase, look down it, and take a step.

As soon as I put my foot on the step, I know I’m on the right track and begin hurrying down the steps.

Excited that I’m making progress, I leap down several steps at a time, swinging around the bannister to speed my descent.

On one level, I stop and walk to the kitchen. It’s lit by the green 0:00 on the microwave clock. Next to the sink, there’s an open-faced sandwich on the counter.

I’m holding out a Chinese food take-out container from its wire handle like it’s Diogenes’s lantern.

A spectral girl walks in and approaches the sandwich. She pauses as if debating whether to eat it. She doesn’t see me. I think perhaps she’s a ghost, but then I get the feeling that I’m the ghost and the Chinese food take-out container is her home.

0150. Phases of the Moon

New Moon You were in the world, but I didn’t know you.

Waxing Crescent We were strangers, wandering in separate orbits, until the night we found each other. We exchanged numbers. Later that week, I called you.

First Quarter We met for dinner. A place you chose. We ate, drank, and talked. Shared food. That night, before leaving each other, we kissed.

Waxing Gibbous We began seeing more of each other. You brought me around to meet your friends. When the moment was right, we spent the night at your place.

Full Moon We saw each other every weekend. After work on Friday, I rushed to be with you. We always ate somewhere. Walked the streets of the city.

Stopped in for a drink at a place or two. Then, home and each other’s arms. Slow, tender mornings. Coffee and breakfast. A casual lunch. Then, back out for dinner. And repeat. Until Sunday night or Monday morning when I had to leave.

Waning Gibbous We built a routine. I was happy, but you were not. A shadow crept in.

Something whispered to me: This is too good to last.

Third Quarter We spoke one weekend when I wasn’t there. You conveyed your troubles and doubts. I suggested we spend some time apart. Later, I realized I had a broken heart.

Waning Crescent You didn’t want to get back together. You needed space and time. Later, when I stopped by to see you, I realized we were strangers.

New Moon You’re still in the world, but I no longer know you.

0151. Art Films I’ll Never Make

The Self-Immolation of Incandenza A golden beeswax candle sculpted in the shape of a man burns slowly from the head down to extinction against a satin black background.

Reminiscent of Nan Goldin’s Fatima Candles, Portugal 1998.

Grave A field of green grass and blue sky. A man enters, paces the perimeter, lies down in the grass, stands, then exits. Returns with a shovel. Digs a 6 x 3 x 3' grave. Exits with shovel. Returns empty handed. Lies in the grave. POV shot of blue sky from within the grave.

Hell Inside a large old house, the camera moves slowly, floating ghostlike, from room to room. Inside every room is the same man, actually, identical twin actors. As the camera enters the room, the same man looks up at, or turns to, the camera and smiles eerily. The entire thing is choreographed so that there is always a man waiting in the next room, as if he is always one step ahead of the viewer, waiting for them.

Flycatcher A 6 x 6' canvas is coated with glue and set up as the backdrop of a cow’s head impaled on a 3' stake set in a summer meadow. The cow’s head draws flies, which stick to the glue on the canvas. After shooting, the canvas is stored to dry. Then, the canvas and the film are dis/played side-by-side.

Infinite Regress The filmmaker filming The Self-Immolation of Incandenza is filmed by another filmmaker; who in turn is filmed by another filmmaker; who in turn is filmed by another filmmaker; ad infinitum.

0152. Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor

Many of us know Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The opening chords are instantly recognizable, and when played on an organ, suggest all the campy terrors of a black-and-white horror flick.

For some reason, I always associate it with Dracula’s castle, but Tod Browning never used it in his classic film. Nor, to my knowledge, has any other director used it on the soundtrack of the many Dracula films to follow, from Universal to Hammer and beyond.

But there’s something in Bach’s opening sequence that feels like the great doors of an ancient Transylvanian castle are being swung open by some ghostly force before I can knock. Entering the main hall, everything is draped with dust and cobwebs (even the dust and cobwebs are draped with dust and cobwebs) showing that no one has been inside for centuries. And though my footprints are the only ones on the floor, I suspect someone or something else is in there with me, compelling me to find its crypt.

Standing before the basement door, Bach’s Passacaglia in C Minor begins playing. I descend alone into the darkness to the basement and then down into the sub-basement beneath it, past the torture chambers, and on to the catacombs.

This is usually where the nightmare or daydream ends. But sometimes, to lighten the mood, the music turns into a corny Seventies cartoon song: There’s nowhere to run, There’s nowhere to hide, In Dracula’s castle once you’re inside.

And yes, I know the last verse uses in and inside. But, it’s a dream song.

0153. Don’t Be a Dodo

My fine-feathered friends, are you tired of seeing and hearing the same unimaginative reboots and undigestible ideas that the entertainment and political systems have been feeding us for decades like we’re blind, chirping chicks trapped in a nest? Does their narrative about our complete dependence on them for all of our entertainment and political needs sound a bit suspect?

Well, I’m here to tell you that it is. And if you haven’t realized this yet, stop being a birdbrain and open your eyes and start questioning the status quo. When you do, you’ll find that those in charge aren’t concerned mama and papa birds. They have an agenda, which is to keep you as dependent chicks your entire life.

This book is written in defiance of that broken political-home entertainment system. And it’s time I leave the nest. They’re full of shit and parasites, anyway, and there are more worlds than this to discover. My eyes are open, I can feed myself, and I’m leaving. So, come with me and let’s step out on a limb together.

Remember, we grow the feathers that are attached to our wings that are attached to our bodies, which are perfectly formed for flight. If birds had to buy their feathers from corporations, and ask permission from governments and other regulating bodies to fly, no bird ever would. The birds that have and were rejected now strut stupidly along the ground like dodos, easy prey for predators. So, don’t be a dodo. Trust yourself, and fly high with your fellow birds of a feather.

0154. Medusa

Medusa was never hideous the way the myths portrayed her. In fact, her beauty would have been as legendary as Helen’s if Poseidon hadn’t raped her to revenge himself against Athena for winning over the people of Athens.

With her lover and temple violated, Athena exiled Medusa and transformed her into a mortal Gorgon and aided Perseus in beheading her.

But that’s how Medusa’s story ended. It began when Medusa was born a towheaded child — an anomaly amongst the black haired people of her tribe — and was believed to be a semi-divine being sent from the gods.

As Medusa grew into a beautiful, young woman, no male suitor could approach her, because when they looked into her clear, blue eyes, they found their limbs and tongues grow heavy, until they stood before her, transfixed like statues, paralyzed and dumb.

Since no man could be found to marry Medusa, she remained untouched and pure. The tribe, not knowing what to do with her, brought her to Dodona to ask the advice of the oracle.

The oracle listened to the wind in the oak leaves and heard the message: Medusa’s purity was the will of the gods, who kept her perfect to become a virgin priestess at the Parthenon, the great temple of Athena.

Medusa was taken from the oracle and brought to the Parthenon in Athens, where she was offered up to the high priestess. The high priestess, who was Athena in disguise, fell in love with Medusa, and accepted her into her temple and became her friend, confidante, and lover.

0155. When Sharing Is Caring

Yesterday, I had dinner with my friends Jeff, Randi, and their two children.

After dinner, Randi had to meet some friends, so Jeff and I hung out with the kids, who continued to beat me up and threaten me with throwing me in the garbage and flushing me down the toilet. All signs of love, Jeff assured me.

After they were ready for bed, they asked if I would read them some books and both quietly curled in my arms as I read to them.

When they were finally off to bed and sleeping, Jeff basked in the silence and made himself a drink and we sat down to talk. He told me about a recent trip he went on with another couple and their kids and how he cooked every meal for their families, as Jeff is wont to do, because Jeff is an incredible cook and host.

He asked me how my writing was going. I told him I had reached 152 stories. He asked me why I only shared them with Niall and not with him.

I told him I didn’t know how he’d handle them. He asked if I thought he wouldn’t understand them. I told him that wasn’t it. When he asked why again, I still didn’t have an answer for him.

But if I had to answer him today, I would say: Jeff, you’re a cook. Do you share a meal with someone before the meal is ready? Or do you share a meal once it’s properly prepared and put out on the table?

0156. A Letter to Failure

Dear Failure, I want to thank you for not giving me everything I thought I wanted. I want to thank you for being wiser than I ever could be. Without you, I wouldn’t be where I am today. If every door I thought I wanted opened was immediately opened for me, I would’ve become, without a doubt, an ego-driven megalomaniac, unaware of my limitations and boundaries and the limitations and boundaries of others. I would’ve made impossible demands on myself and the people and the world around me, forcing them to give me what I wanted to no end. But since you had the wisdom to continually deny me, you actually kept me on a path that I would’ve never known about. The path that has led me here to this place and time, where I can sit down and write you a letter, thanking you for all that you have done for me. Because you denied me my immature desires, you showed me another way, a way that molded my desires through the maturity of your wisdom, a wisdom I have since inherited through your many hard lessons, the most important of which is that your NO in one place always meant a YES somewhere else. And instead of dwelling defeated at the feet of your NO, I learned to continue on in search of a YES. And by searching for a YES, I was actually following my own abilities, my own heart, and my own way. So, thanks again for everything you’ve done for me.

Respectfully, J. Blasso-Gieseke

0157. Werehouse

Denise and Janine were in the market to buy a home. They had seen a number of them in their favorite neighborhood but found nothing within their budget. Disheartened, they widened their search into less favorable neighborhoods.

One day, their realtor received notice that a house just came on the market in their favorite neighborhood that was being sold at an incredibly low price. The realtor told them they’d have to act quickly, because a house this cheap would be snapped up by a contractor in no time.

An hour later, they were standing in front of the house. It was a dump, but they could see past it to envision their future home. The realtor reminded them about the circling contractors. Denise and Janine excused themselves momentarily and discussed the merits of buying a cheap fixerupper in their favorite neighborhood versus buying a newer construction in a less favorable neighborhood.

Being no strangers to hard work, they decided to buy it, and put in a cash offer, which was accepted within hours. The closing happened quickly. And before they knew it, they were standing in front of their new home, key in hand.

That night, they went out to dinner to celebrate. When they returned home, their house was gone. They searched the property by the light of the full moon, but only found the concrete slab, some stray roof shingles and aluminum siding.

Their neighbor approached them from across the street and said, “Looking for your home, ladies? Don’t worry. It’ll be back. Werehouses always return before dawn.”

0158. Bakers Lane

Bread is my favorite food in the world. Hot, crisp bread. Crack the crust and inhale the heavenly aroma.

Bread is made from four basic ingredients: flour, water, salt, and yeast; or three, if you like yours unleavened. I like it both ways. But however it’s made, it’s deliciously simple, yet so complex.

Bread offers us everything. What more could any of us ask for? In my world, I can live on bread alone because bread is love.

Don’t we love breaking bread with the one’s we love? Don’t we love loafing and lazing with our lovers, running our hands over their biscuits and bagels, their boules and baguettes?

It’s also the only food that we bake that has a butt. Some call the butt a heel, but I think you’re a heel if you call it a heel when you can call it a butt. Say it. It’s funny. A butt of buttered bread is better. There’s nothing like spreading hot, salted butter on the butt of bread. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

And don’t we love celebrating when someone has a bun in the oven?

Of course, we do. Isn’t the word love in the word loaves? Isn’t the word earth in the word hearth, along with the word heart too? These are the places where the bread is baked. Don’t we all want to be warm and cozy in someone’s hearth? I know I do.

And when our hearth heart is overfull with bread, we can do as Baba says and feed other people.

0159. Party On

Whenever I hear the word ‘party,’ I immediately hear the word ‘celebration.’

I’ve been to many parties: birthday parties, Christmas parties, dinner parties, engagement parties, graduation parties, Halloween parties, house parties, pool parties, retirement parties, etc. If you replace the word ‘parties’ with ‘celebrations’ in any of the above, you essentially have the same meaning.

But a celebration is a softer word than party. You can celebrate something by yourself or you can have an intimate celebration with another person. But a party requires people. I’d say a minimum of ten.

I’d call three to five people ‘having people over.’ And I’d call six to nine people a ‘gathering,’ which we never just call a ‘gathering,’ but a ‘small gathering.’ “What are you having?” someone asks. “Oh, you know, just a small gathering.” And we know what that means.

But a party requires people. And that’s what I love about the word.

‘Party’ means both ‘a group of people’ and ‘a celebration.’ You can’t have a party without people because people make a party. I haven’t looked into the etymology, but I imagine the first meaning of ‘party’ was ‘group of people.’ It was probably much later, after many groups of people came together in celebration that party came to primarily mean a ‘celebration made up of a group of people.’ From this came the verb ‘to party’ — and we all know people who like that a little bit too much.

Before the second definition of party appeared, it was physically impossible to throw a party, but now you can.

0160. The End of Thrillers

The problem with almost every thriller is its use of psychology to explain both the twisted logic behind the antagonist’s actions and the protagonist’s dogged pursuit of the antagonist.

“Tell me why?” the desperate protagonist asks the antagonist, having themselves become, in the course of their pursuit, like the antagonist. The whole system of the thriller demands a need for closure. And that’s when they spring it on us: the flashback with accompanying voiceover, showing and explaining the trauma the antagonist experienced.

Yawn.

Do these explanations still make sense in today’s world? Can the choice of someone’s actions for good or evil boil down to one traumatic event or series of events? Does that explain it or explain it away?

In our post-post-modern age of complexity, when thrillers are being churned out daily, writers, directors, and writer-directors don’t seem to be looking for non-psychological explanations. Instead, they keep amplifying cheap psychology to more absurd levels.

Here’s a scenario: A man is gang raped. So, he clones himself, and when his clones are of age, they go out and get revenge on X by gang raping them to death. If the scenario is the revenge of the protagonist, add “the gang rapists” to X. If the scenario is about the revenge of the antagonist, add “innocent people” to X. The above example is completely ridiculous, but for all I know, it, or some version of it, has already been done before.

I ask: Can there be such a thing as a post-psychological thriller? Or does that mean the end of thrillers?

0161. The Grass Family Vacation

The Grass Family got excited when they saw the shadow of the cow loom over them, blocking out the sun.

“Get ready for a great adventure, kids!” the parents yelled.

And the kids squealed in delight as the soft muzzle of the cow descended and plucked them up with its incisors and slowly chewed them between its molars.

One of the kids asked, “Are we there yet?” But before the parents could answer, they were swallowed.

Together they rode the peristaltic action of the esophagus down to the rumen, where they mixed with other families.

The family stayed in the rumen for a long time, until one day they were burped back up to be chewed as cud then swallowed again.

The kids loved this ride and wanted to go on it again and again, but eventually they decided to move on to the honeycombed room of the reticulum.

They were there for a short while before they moved on to the omasum, passing between its large, fleshy leaves, to sit in the abomasum.

Then, they moved on to the small intestines, where they surfed the cilia all the way to the large intestine.

The ride back home was long and the kids fell asleep.

The parents woke them up before they passed out of the back end of the cow.

In free fall, they all screamed and landed with a plop in the grass.

Back in the sun, all the kids asked when they could go back and do it again.

The parents reassured them they would next season.

0162. Only in the Land of Make Believe

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government works to support the interests of its citizens over the interests of its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government ensures the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for its citizens over the same right for its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government demands the same moral and ethical standards from its citizens as it demands from its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government only provides welfare for its citizens instead of its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government punishes its citizens for braking laws in the same manner that it punishes it wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government provides robust economic stability for its citizens in the same manner it does for its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government makes its citizens pay less taxes than those paid by its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government allows itself to be successfully lobbied by its citizens in the same manner as its wealthy corporations.

Only in the Land of Make Believe can you pretend that the government is run for and by its citizens instead of for and by its wealthy corporations.

0163. Dolores

“My, Dolores, what a lovely hat!” said the society lady. “And that feather!

So fashionable.”

“Thank you,” Dolores said proudly, patting her head with gloved hands.

“The feather was plucked live from a rare bird found high in the Andes.”

“And those gloves, so soft and supple.”

“Yes, they’re made from the skin of young sheep, just like my shoes,” she said, lifting the hem of her dress modestly.

“And that stole, so chic.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s made from the fur of baby seals clubbed to death in the arctic.”

“And that dress! Heavens. How do you get it to stay out so wide?”

“The dressmakers use baleen from whales murdered in the ocean.

They also used it for the ribs of my parasol.”

“Ingenious. What will they think of next?”

“Smell my perfume?”

“Yes, it’s extraordinary,” the society lady said, sniffing delicately with her pert nose.

“That’s made from ambergris, mined from the bowels of dead whales.”

“Delightful!”

“And here’s another secret, I use some of their refined fat to shape and slick my hair.”

“You let nothing go to waste, Dolores. Such a model of efficiency.”

“And to think it all comes from a fish!”

“A very useful creature, indeed. But you must tell me about that necklace. The jewel is so well crafted and the setting so tasteful.”

“That’s a diamond from Africa. Fetching isn’t it? It has drawn many an eye.”

“I’m certain it has,” the society lady said, winking.

The ladies laughed as they sipped their tea with sugar from delicate porcelain cups.

0164. Metis

I’m using Odysseus as my model for telling my stories because Odysseus employed the faculty of metis when telling his.

Let me explain.

Metis is a Titaness who aided Zeus in the war between the Olympians and the Titans. Of course, horndog Zeus slept with Metis afterwards, resulting in the birth of Athena, who later became Odysseus’s guardian.

Metis, in Greek, means ‘skill or art,’ but in most contexts, the word has the sense of ‘cunning or craft.’ So, metis is not just art, it’s ‘artful, or well-made.’ Metis also suggests ‘artifice,’ which has the sense of something false but pleasing.

From that last definition, we can question Odysseus’s story by asking: Did everything that happened to Odysseus on his odyssey actually happen to him? Or was it a story so well crafted that people fell for it wherever he told it?

Did Odysseus really escape the cruel clutches of a Cyclops? Did he really venture into the underworld? Did he really hear the song of the Sirens? Did he really survive passing between Scylla and Charybdis not once but twice?

Did any of this really happen?

It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that Odysseus tells a marvelous story.

And like Odysseus, I too want to use my metis to tell new, marvelous stories or retell old, familiar ones from a fresh angle and in a new light, thereby shifting our perspective and perception, often only by the slightest degree, so that we may glean something previously unseen.

The power of metis is to tell a tale well told.

0165. The Culinary Equivalent of Mozart

Grant had a unique skill. He could taste a dish by reading a recipe. If Grant saw a picture of the recipe he could taste the dish with even greater depth.

Grant compared his skill to a conductor reading sheet music. As the conductor reads the notes for the different instruments, he hears them together as the complete symphony. So too with Grant, when he reads the ingredient list and cooking instructions, he can taste the different flavors as the complete dish. Grant can do this because he remembers all the flavors from all the food he’s ever eaten.

Whenever Grant makes a new recipe, he prepares them in his head, adding this and subtracting that, until he finds the perfect balance. When he prepares them for his sous-chefs, they’re always astounded that he managed to make his dish without any trial or refinement of his recipes.

Thus, Grant was dubbed “the culinary equivalent of Mozart,” and his restaurant became world-renowned for its symphonic flavor. Every year, reservations for his limited seating were quickly gobbled up by the elites who could afford them.

At first, this made Grant happy. After all, they paid handsomely for his meals. But Grant wanted to reach more people than his restaurant allowed. So, he began writing affordable cookbooks with recipes that only required common ingredients and kitchenware and a basic knowledge and willingness to cook.

This restriction was wonderful for Grant. As he worked within these narrow parameters, he was able to find ways of elevating the taste of simple foods to new levels.

0166. I Guess It’ll Be Grace

About two and a half years ago, my dog Boca became immobile and had to be put to sleep. Fortunately, my friend Matt, a veterinarian, was in town so we could do it peacefully at home. As she died, I cried myself empty.

Two and half months later, my friend Ed called to tell me that his landscaper Anthony had found a puppy that needed a home and thought I might be interested. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to start again. But being curious, I asked Ed to send a photo.

As I looked at the picture, I debated with myself, but eventually decided to adopt her. When I told my mother about my decision, she wanted to go with me to pick her up.

On the drive to Ed’s, she asked what I was going to name her. I told her I had no idea. My mother joked saying that I should name her either Shirley or Grace. I told her I couldn’t name my dog after my grandmother or grandmother’s cousin. It just seemed wrong. We both laughed and dropped it.

When we got to Ed’s, I picked up the pup and sat with her. She was restless in my lap and wanted to play with Ed’s two French bulldogs.

When I set her down, Ed asked if I had picked a name. I told him I hadn’t.

Ed said, “Anthony suggested Shirley or Grace.”

My mother and I looked at each other shocked at the coincidence.

“I guess it’ll be Grace,” I said.

0167. Nimrod

Nimrod was a mighty king and hunter before the Lord.

In the city of Babel, Nimrod gathered his people and said to them, “The Lord was cruel for punishing us with a Flood. What sort of Lord seeks to destroy his people? We don’t need a Lord like that. We need a lord to protect us and I am that lord.”

Nimrod’s people asked Nimrod what to do. Nimrod said, “We will defy the Lord by building a Tower of a height that will reach the heavens and of a width that will keep us safe from His Floods.”

Inspired by their king’s boldness, they turned their backs on the Lord and took up the task of building the Tower. Following Nimrod’s plans, they added brick upon brick and sealed it like the hold of a ship.

The Lord watched as they built the Tower. He was impressed by their determination to defy Him, but distressed that they hadn’t learned anything from the Flood. He thought about sending down Fire to annihilate them and cleanse the earth of their sins. But remembering the ineffectiveness of the Flood, and not wanting to start Creation over again, He decided to take a less destructive approach and struck Nimrod dumb.

That morning, as Nimrod was giving orders to his people, he began speaking gibberish. The people, thinking their lord had become crazy, lost faith in him, and abandoned him and the Tower, and scattered across the face of the earth.

Now, Nimrod was no longer a mighty king and hunter before the Lord.

0168. Dream’s Dream

Many of us believe that Reality is all there is. But as an arch-dreamer, I’m here to tell you that this is only half true. Reality exists, but so too does Dream, because Reality is really Dream’s dream.

If you think about it, what would Dream dream other than Reality?

And what would Reality realize other than Dream? Both worlds dream and realize each other and need each other to exist.

Over time, as we became more conscious, we became aware of them.

As we became more aware of Reality, we became more aware of Dream.

As we became more aware of Dream, we became more aware of Reality.

Dream was our generous mother, who gave us a place where the impossible could exist. Reality was our equally generous father, who gave us a place where the possible could exist. This allowed us to take the impossible from Dream and bring it into Reality and take the possible from Reality and bring it into Dream.

We lived in both worlds equally until the day we began favoring Reality over Dream. And as the world of Dream began to recede in favor of Reality, all the places where Dream and Reality overlapped began to disappear, until the world of Dream became a place we could only visit in our sleep.

When we chose our father over our mother, we became unbalanced.

But I’m here to tell you, reader, that we can put that to right. Our mother, Dream, isn’t gone but forgotten. To bring her back, we must remember her again.

0169. The Present

“I never really minded his antics. Normally, they were aimed at someone else, and I always had a good laugh. You know how he’s always saying something provocative and then getting people to do foolish things to prove his point.

“I guess maybe it was his charisma, the way he spoke and commanded others so effortlessly, that was what attracted me to him in the first place.

He always seemed so self-assured, as if he had all the answers to all the questions in the universe.

“I remember that day. We were having a laugh at one of the new members, and maybe I laughed too loud, because suddenly, he turned on me and said: “‘Speak in the present moment.’

“I always speak in the present moment,” I replied. “‘No, you don’t. You always speak in the past. I want you to speak in the present moment.’

“I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak. “‘Do it. Speak presently. I want to hear it, this miracle.’

“He closed his eyes and shook his head as if clearing the air around him of unwanted sound. “‘I’m waiting,’ he said impatiently.

“I hated him that instant. To make a fool of me in front of the others was horrifying. I could only look at his lean face with revulsion.

“His eyes opened. “‘Not going to try? No faith in your abilities? Poor, lamb. Always a step behind.’

“I walked away in a huff. But upon reflection, I realized he had given me a gift; he had presented me with the present of empathy.”

0170. The Incident at the Saloon

The Gunslinger looked from the Businessman to the door then finished his whiskey.

The Gambler looked from the Gunslinger to the Businessman to the door, turned back to the bar and wrote something on a card. Then, turned it over and wrote Wager for a whiskey? on it and slid it across to the Barman.

The Barman read it and pushed it back, shaking his head.

The Gambler shrugged.

Moments later, the door opened and a Miner stepped in carrying a large satchel over his shoulder. The Miner surveyed the room then walked towards a table in the corner.

The Gambler hastily wrote something on another card, flipped it over and wrote some more.

The Gunslinger called out to the Miner before he reached the table.

The Miner turned, dropped his satchel, and drew his gun.

The Gunslinger drew faster and shot him dead.

The Businessman stood up shaking.

The Gunslinger shot him dead, then turned on the Barman, gun still smoking.

The Barman met him stare for stare.

The Gunslinger held his gun ready as he knelt over the Businessman and removed the billfold from his jacket. Then, he walked to the Miner’s satchel, picked it up and left through the front door.

The Gambler tapped on the second card.

The Barman read Double or nothing? and shook his head.

The Gambler flipped them over and tapped on them.

The Barman read Miner and Businessman.

The Gambler pointed to his empty glass and spread his hands.

The Barman rubbed his pointer and middle finger up and down his thumb.

0171. A Soft Answer to a Question Historically Answered With Hard Answers We all have questions and we’re all looking for answers. But one of the questions we have to ask about the answers we want is: Do we want hard answers or soft answers?

By hard answers, I mean a definitive “Yes” or “No.” By soft answers, I mean both and everything in between.

Those of us that are looking for answers to the question “Is there a God?” often want a hard answer. But a question like “Is there a God?” in our world today is quite abstract and complex with no hard answer that can be given because the stress is almost always placed on the indefinite article “a.”

How can anyone answer “Is there a God?” for everyone in the world with confidence? Even if we don’t believe in them, we can answer the question “Are there gods?” quite easily. “Yes” is the answer. “Yes, there are many gods.” Just look at every religion in the world. Here, we can use a soft answer with confidence.

However, when it comes to “a” God, we always require a hard answer because we’re forced to select “a” God or no God from amongst the Gods we know. We say, “This is my God and my God is the God.” Or “There is no God.” But our answer is coming from our perspective, which is “a” perspective, a hard perspective, even if we remain uncertain.

By tempering our hard, exclusive answers with soft, inclusive answers, we allow other perspectives to co-exist with ours, and from it, create a more tolerant world.

0172. Empathy Is Emotional Collaboration

“Paul, I don’t understand why you don’t understand,” Jennifer said. “Really, what’s so hard about putting in a little effort? Why do I have to do all the work all the time? Why is everything on me? It’s just not fair.”

“I know,” Paul said. “But what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to be alive and present with me instead of off in your little bubble. You’re never here, Paul. You’re never here with me. You’re here in your body. But that’s it. It’s like I’m alone.”

“But you know you’re not alone.”

“Paul, we never talk. You never ask me how I’m doing or how my day went. If I never asked you questions, we would literally never talk. I would never know anything. The only reason why I know anything is because I pry the details from you every night, and it’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.

“For a relationship to work, you need to communicate. You need to talk. You can’t say nothing or grunt answers and become offended every time I ask you something. I have to ask. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know anything, and we’d live together without speaking. Maybe that’s what you want, but it’s not what I want.”

“It’s not what I want, either, babe. You know that.”

“Do I? Because if you really didn’t want that, then you’d make an effort, you’d meet me halfway, you’d talk to me.

“If you want this relationship to work, Paul, you need to have some emotional intelligence, some empathy, because empathy is emotional collaboration.”

0173. My Imagination

Every morning as I come out of R.E.M. sleep and begin shedding the last vestiges of dream, my imagination is there, impatiently waiting for me.

“Hey, are you awake yet? I have a couple story ideas for you,” it says.

I check the time on my phone.

“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, but they’re really good ideas.”

“You have really good ideas every morning. Can’t this wait a few more hours?”

“I just thought you’d be interested, seeing as how you have all these stories to write.”

“I am interested. You know I’m interested. But it’s four o’clock in the morning. Can’t I just get a full night’s sleep for once?”

“You can if you want. But you know how your brain works.”

“You think I’ll forget them?”

“You have before.”

I sigh, but know it’s right.

“Okay, tell me.”

It tells me the ideas.

“Those are really good.”

“I told you.”

“Maybe I can just lie here in the dark, in my warm bed, and remember them.”

“You can if you want to risk it.”

“Or maybe I’ll just jot down some notes.”

“They’re your stories.”

“You don’t think I can remember them, do you? You think my memory’s that bad?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I have to get up right now and write them before I forget.”

“Aren’t you happy I got you up?”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

As I throw back the covers and put my feet on the floor, the Temptation’s song Just My Imagination starts playing in my head.

0174. The Catskinners

On planet Camlem, where cats are the main source of food, a brutal war has been going on between the catskinner guilds for several decades.

The guilds, which had been practicing their art peacefully and in isolation for centuries in their respective towns and cities, began coming into contact with one another as the swelling populations of the world allowed the guilds to expand and set up shop in foreign lands.

At first, the guilds kept to themselves, as there was robust trade for all of them. But as the marketplace became more crowded and the competition more fierce, debates between them began over whose technique was the best.

Of course, each guild claimed theirs to be superior to the other guilds and the debate turned into an argument and the argument turned into a fight.

Soon town and city folk were swept into it and each began taking sides and joining the guilds to become soldiers for their cause. The fights escalated from small, local skirmishes into all-out war with the winning guild using their skinning techniques on captured combatants and civilians.

There seemed to be no end to the atrocities. Until one night, after the largest battle of the war in which every guild sustained incredible losses, all the cats on the planet mysteriously disappeared.

With their food source gone, the weakened guilds and the surviving populations fell victims to famine, cannibalism, and disease.

As the last of the warlords of the guilds perished, the cats of Camlem had already settled comfortably into their new home in Rahtlu.

0175. The Simurgh

Chanticleer, the Cock of the Morn, summoned the birds to the Summit of the Birds.

Those who heard his call flew to the mountain to meet with the Phoenix to hear her announcement.

The birds came from all around and in all shapes and sizes, from the largest condor to the smallest hummingbird.

“As you know,” the Phoenix began, “if you heard the call and came, you are one of the select with ears to hear the song of our great king, the Simurgh. Today, we are gathered here to begin our journey to him. This is a test that he has set before you, to find those truly worthy of him.

“But make no mistake; it will be a long and perilous journey. Many will try and many will fail. The best may be bested and the least may succeed. If you are ready to begin, follow me.”

The Phoenix took wing, and all the birds followed her fire like a beacon as they flew over meadows and forests, deserts and jungles, coastlines and oceans to the tundra and the snow and the cold of the mountains.

When the birds had reached the end of their endurance and were uncertain if they could make it, the Phoenix flew into a cave atop the highest mountain and hovered before a mirror of ice.

“Behold, your king,” she said.

And in the ice mirror, all thirty birds that had survived the journey became a single bird, their wings and hearts beating as one, as they transformed into their king, the Simurgh.

0176. Satan Speaks

“I am the voice that convinces you paradise is outside yourself, after death, and not within you, here and now.

“I am the voice that tells you hell is a place reserved for everyone not like you, for the heathen and the sinner you see in everyone but yourself.

“I am the voice that compels you to never change, to maintain the integrity of yourself at all costs, even if it destroys everyone around you.

“I am the voice that suggests you arm yourself and remain vigilant, untrusting, and hostile, against everyone except yourself.

“I am the voice that hypocritically makes you believe it’s okay to insult and harm others, as long as the same is never done to you.

“I am the voice that legitimizes your differences and superiority, keeping you isolated in the delusion of your untouched perfection.

“I am the voice that whispers to you about your insecurities, so that you can project them onto others, while remaining blind to them yourself.

“I am the voice that maligns anyone who counters your accusations, so that they are dehumanized and defeated before you have to listen.

“I am the voice that keeps you certain that you are not at fault for anything, so that you can maintain the fantasy of your blameless isolation.

“I am the voice that strengthens your ignorance of the needs of everyone and everything around you, while making certain your every need is fulfilled.

“I am the voice that speaks inside everyone everywhere. I am both one and legion. Listen to me and obey.”

0177. Ram

Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram

0178. Orootoraturatumba

Ancient, stooped, and hoary with age, Orootoraturatumba inspected the saplings at the edge of the forest. “Will you tell mother I’ve returned,” he said to them, as his gnarled fingers carefully turned over their small, delicate leaves and flexed their fragile branches and supple gray-green trunks.

Finding them sound, he nodded to himself, and walked slowly towards the forest.

Stopping by the smaller trees, he began inspecting them, as he had the saplings. When they responded to his touch, he smiled.

Entering the dim light of the forest, the large trees leaned toward him as he reached out to them and held on to them for support.

Patting each tree, he greeted it, and thanked it for its strength before moving on to the next, steadily heading towards the great mother tree at the heart of the forest.

She stood there waiting for him, leaning in his direction. He approached her, arms opened wide, and they embraced.

“It’s been so long,” he said. “You look strong. The trees look strong.

This makes me happy. Not long ago, this was a scorched plain and you, a little seed. Now, it’s a mighty forest again. It’s marvelous. Thank you for looking after it for me.”

The leaves shook above him.

“I’ve traveled wide and planted many trees, growing many forests. But now, as I reach my end, I want to die here with you where it began. Will you accept my body and look after my bones as you’ve looked after the trees of the forest?”

And the leaves shook above him.

0179. Apeshit

Simeon aped the apes even though the sign at the gate clearly read NO MOLESTING THE APES. Simeon took the sign to mean something sexual, which he thought was disgusting, and, of course, had no intention or inclination of doing, ever. Simeon couldn’t believe that a sign had to be posted telling people not to molest apes, when it should be quite obvious that apes should never be molested, forcing him to wonder about the sickos who had visited the park before him, and who must’ve been caught in flagrante delicto to warrant them putting up such an obtrusive and ugly sign at the entrance.

Arguably, the sign designer should have employed a clearer verb like BOTHERING so that it could be read without confusion, but there it stood. And Simeon, certain that he had read it correctly, believed he was doing no wrong as he walked bowlegged, dragging his knuckles along the ground, while making direct eye contact with the apes, and bellowing ooo-ooo-ahh-ahh, drumming his chest, and leaping up and down.

At first, the apes were intimidated, and cleared out of the clearing to the safety of the trees to hurl shit at him. Simeon ducked and dodged their bombardment. When it ended, he inspected his clothes. Seeing no shit had hit him, he immediately began again.

During Simeon’s unwitting display of aggressive behavior, the alpha male approached him. And stupidly believing that he was entertaining the ape, Simeon upped the ante of his antics until the alpha male leapt at him and went apeshit on his face.

0180. 180 Degrees

When I started writing these stories just after midnight on January 1st 2019, I didn’t have the full scope of the project worked out. I only came up with my end goal of “1,000 260-word stories completed within the calendar year” somewhere in the middle of the month.

As I analyzed the goal, I realized that, if I wanted to achieve it, I would have to maintain a schedule of 20-stories a week for 50 weeks.

On February 7th, 5½ weeks in, I had only completed 90 stories, which meant I was behind by 30 stories, if I was sticking to the 20-story a week schedule.

To keep the schedule within sight, I modified an Arbor Day calendar I received in the mail and pinned it on the wall next to my computer to help me keep track of my progress. It seemed daunting at the time, but I knuckled down over the next few weeks and weekends to close the gap and catch up.

In the process, I’ve discovered more ways to find and tell stories, as my radar has become better at picking them up, processing them, and setting them down. Everything in and around me is now actively searched for a story. It’s a strange reflex to hone, but one I’m grateful for. I hope it can carry me through to the end.

Today, February 26th, I’m at 180 stories and ahead of schedule by about half a week. I’m curious what looking back from the 250-, 500-, 750-, and 1000-story mark is going to be like.

0181. Sleazepunk

The Genrepunks begin with Steampunk, which fetishizes steam technology from the late 19th century to the time of the Great War. Flapper era Decopunk starts immediately after the War and is quickly followed by Dieselpunk, which ends when World War II begins. After this is Atomicpunk, which runs throughout the Cold War, ending in the mid-50s and late-60s, when we became entrenched in the Vietnam War. When that war ended in the mid-70s, there’s a small window of time during which there are no punks. Then, Cyberpunk, which looks towards a dystopic future where computer technology has run amok, is developed in the 1980s during the Reagan and Bush eras.

Today, with movies and music looking back and fetishizing the 80s, it seems like we skipped that small window of time between the late-1970s and early-1980s to exploit for an appropriate punk. For this period, I suggest the name Sleazepunk. The name doesn’t come from any technology particular to that time, but from the general sleaziness of the era when America lost its soul.

We already know what it looks like. Hipsters have been mining this decade for a couple of decades now. It’s aviator glasses, handlebar mustaches, bellbottoms, and tube socks. (Think: the Beastie Boys Sabotage video directed by Spike Jonze.) It’s the filth and grime of gutted, crimeridden cities. (Think: The French Connection, The Friends of Eddie Coyle, and The Killing of a Chinese Bookie.) It’s roller skates and muscle cars.

It’s pimps and prostitutes. It’s cocaine and heroin. (Think: the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, and desperation.)

0182. Big D

Big D did it again. He stood alone in the middle of the bar surrounded by several broken and bleeding bodies. The destruction didn’t take much effort. He took a pipe across the back of the head while sitting down, drinking, and minding his own business. Then, he stood, jabbed, crossed, and repeated, until everyone who was a threat to him was dead on the floor.

He was perplexed by the violence directed towards him. He knew it was his size that attracted them. But why would every ganger with something to prove want to fight him when they knew this is how it ended? He never wanted to hurt anyone, not now at least. When he was younger, he loved it, took pride in it, believing he was born to brawl and kill.

But all that changed after he met Kama. She taught him that real strength came from vulnerability not violence, that he had nothing to prove to anyone, ever. He loved her for that, for showing him that there was another way, that he could be a kinder, gentler man. Now, he had to go home to her and explain what happened. He knew she’d be disappointed with him.

And she was. Her silence said everything. He tried to explain that it was a reflex, a bad habit he was working hard to break. But she just shushed him, as she cleaned the blood from his enormous hands, scrubbing the right knuckles of his fist where BIGD was tattooed, then the left where EATH was X’ed out.

0183. We Come in Peace

When S.E.T.I. picked up a continuous stream of transmissions, the PostDetection Taskgroup was called in to confirm it. The Taskgroup read and verified the transmissions as communications from an advanced alien race on its way to Earth. The protocols that were established at S.E.T.I.’s founding required the data to be shared with the President of the United States and his Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The President met with his Joint Chiefs in a secret meeting to put into motion the protocols that were established in the event of an alien arrival.

America’s military and nuclear weapon arsenals, the largest and most destructive in the history of the world, began to quietly mobilize in preparation for an invasion.

S.E.T.I. was commandeered by the military and regular communication was established with the approaching vessel. As the aliens neared Earth, the time and coordinates of an isolated and defensible location where the President and his aides would meet them upon arrival were sent to them.

When the alien ship landed, the President was waiting for them inside a bunker. As the alien delegation disembarked, the President and his aides exited the bunker and went to greet them.

They looked similar to us in shape and size with various skin tones and different styles of dress. On their way to Earth, they had studied and mastered all of our languages, habits, and mannerisms to facilitate unambiguous communication.

“We come in peace,” they said in chorus.

“We welcome you in peace,” the President said.

They laughed and said, “Your welcome feels more like an ambush.”

0184. We Wait in Peace

The alien delegation stood with the President and his aides, a team of covert Special Forces commandos, while military scientists scanned their vessel for any weapons.

“It’s just a precaution,” the President said.

“We understand,” the alien delegation said. “We’ve watched your movies. You believe this is The War of the Worlds, but it’s more like The Day the Earth Stood Still, less the robot, Gort, of course.”

“It’s just a precaution,” the President repeated.

“Not a movie fan, we see.”

“No, I watch them.”

“Klaatu barada nikto,” they said, looking at him, smiling.

“I’m sorry. I don’t speak —” An aide leaned in and whispered into the President’s ear. “Oh, I see,” he said. “It’s from that movie.”

The aliens started giggling. “Forgive us. Space travel always makes us punchy.”

“Forgive me for not catching on right away.”

“Sorry to make jokes at this time. We know this is a historically important moment for all of our worlds.”

Another aide leaned in and whispered into the President’s ear.

“It looks like you’re all clear. Thanks for your patience. You can never be too careful.”

The aliens shrugged. “We’ve left war behind millennia ago and have no desire to invade, destroy, or enslave your world.”

“That’s good to know. As long as it stays that way, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. Follow me. We can talk inside.”

The delegation followed the President.

“So, there’s no war where you’re from?” he asked.

“There was, but you don’t develop sub-light speed travel to explore the cosmos when you’re murdering each other.”

0185. We Talk in Peace

Inside the bunker, the aliens sat at a brightly lit table across from the President and his aides, who stood behind him, eyes sharp, ready for anything.

“Again, I want to welcome you to Earth,” the President began. “We are honored to have you here in our great nation.”

“Mr. President, correct us if we’re wrong, but are you not the head of state of the American people?” the aliens asked together.

“I am.”

“But you address us as the head of the nations of the world. Why?” “Because, as the greatest nation on Earth, we are in the best position to receive you.”

“Or have first access to our resources and technology.”

The President remained silent.

“But each of us,” the aliens pointed to each other, “is from a different galaxy and we came here to speak to the people of Earth, not a people of Earth.

“To be frank, Mr. President, if you came to any one of our homeworlds, we would have the population of the entire planet on hand to welcome you at the spaceport of our greatest city. But instead, we’re invited to land in the middle of nowhere surrounded by weapons and armed soldiers,” they pointed to the aides, “while the people of the world have been kept in the dark about our arrival. Does this appear welcoming to you?”

“Forgive us, this was just a necessary precaution.”

“And you didn’t even offer us any refreshment or ask if we had to use the facilities. It’s called hospitality, Mr. President, and it’s practiced everywhere.”

0186. Kidding

My Uncle John used to do this to me as a kid: He’d begin by mentioning something ridiculous, a small break in reality’s rules that were incompatible with my experience. Then, he’d expand it into ever more ’pataphysical levels of absurdity while holding a straight face. I’d become frustrated by the impossibility of what he was saying and call my parents over to help me sort out his nonsense.

When they showed up, I’d explain what was going on. Then, my uncle would tell them what he told me and exaggeratedly wink at them so I could see. Instead of my parents siding with me, they became coconspirators in his absurdity. Seeing my parents’ irrationality, I thought the whole world had gone mad.

Frustrated, I would desperately beg my uncle to tell me the truth because I couldn’t live in the irrational world he had put me in. Once he knew he had me, he’d just shrug and walk away, deliberately ignoring all of my desperate attempts for closure until he forgot about me and the state he left me in.

After a few exchanges like this, I learned that whenever I needed him to tell me the truth, I’d start cursing. This would make him laugh and make my parents angry. When my parents began scolding me for using profanity, my uncle would intervene and tell them it was his fault, that he had wound me up. And to keep me from getting in trouble, he’d confess and restore order to my world by telling me he was “kidding.”

0187. The Lesson for Today Is

“The lesson for today is: imagination,” the teacher said, writing the word on the blackboard. “Can you say imagination?”

“Imagination,” the students repeated loudly.

“Very good. Does everyone here know what imagination is?”

“Yes!” “Of course, you do. We use our imagination all the time. We’re using it right now. Our brain is the most imaginative thing in the whole wide world. Today, I’m going to show you how it helps us understand each other.

“Who wants to be my volunteer?

“Okay, Loghan. Come on up. Take a seat next to Frederick the hamster, please. Thank you.

“Now, let me start by asking: Does Frederick have a brain?”

“Yes.” “Does Loghan?”

“Yes,” the students said, laughing as Loghan made a funny face.

“Can Frederick use his imagination?”

The students weren’t sure.

“Can Frederick pretend to be something other than a hamster?”

“No.” “That’s right, he can only be a hamster. Can Loghan pretend to be a hamster?”

Loghan held his hands up like paws.

“Yes.” “That’s right. By using his imagination, Loghan can pretend to be something other than himself, like a hamster. And because of our imaginations, we can pretend to be other people. This helps us understand each other. If I’m sad, Loghan can feel my sadness with his imagination, even if he’s happy. And Lohgan can try to make me happy by making funny faces to cheer me up. Our imagination lets us feel what other people are feeling. It’s what makes us human and not hamsters. It’s what allows us to be kind to each other.”

0188. The Saint of Spiders

I’m a Saint of Spiders because I understand the role spiders play in my home and life. As a Saint, I treat the spiders I live with with respect. I leave them alone and let them live their lives without interference.

During the spring, the spiders return and begin building webs in the corners of the walls, ceilings, floors, windows, doors, and archways, as well as under cabinets, fixtures, shelves, radiators, and every piece of furniture in the house.

When the bugs come back, the spiders grow fat in their webs and the shells of dead insects pile up beneath them. Unfortunately, some spiders aren’t so lucky. They build their webs in such out-of-the-way places that no insect ever crosses their path and soon their dried shells sit alone in their collapsed webs.

But the spiders that do survive gain strength throughout the summer and deep into the fall, when, as if from nowhere, baby spiders abound, littering the house with tiny gossamer ribbons as if in celebration of their birth. These little ones like to travel, and never set up residency for too long. After they leave, the old stalwarts remain behind patiently minding and mending their webs.

As winter settles in and the house gets cold, the spiders slowly disappear one by one, leaving their webs and the aftermath of their final meals behind. When the last of them are gone, I clean our home thoroughly, returning it to a pristine state that provides them with fresh territory to reclaim once spring returns and the bugs with it.

0189. The Ash of Nuclear Winter

Yggdrasil is the giant ash tree that holds all nine Norse worlds in its branches. It is the World Tree where heaven and earth unite. It is the Axis Mundi, the sacred center upon which the world spins. It is the Tree of Life, the supreme symbol of the living Earth. It is the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, which imparted to us self-consciousness. It is the Bodhi Tree under which Buddha found enlightenment. It is the tree from which an apple fell to give rise to gravity. It is the taxonomical tree of evolution, genealogy, and heredity. It is the map of our minds moving back through space and time to discover our origins in the stars. It is us and we are it.

But we have forgotten that we are it and it is us. We have ignored our common origins, our shared genealogy and heredity. And in our race to segregate and separate ourselves, to control resources and dominate each other, we have built terrible weapons of horrendous power capable of annihilating life. So when the fruit of our self-hatred rises from the earth to fall back from the heavens upon ourselves, it will give birth to a new tree in a blinding flash of light, a tree of fire, radiation, and destruction, a tree of Avidya and Nescience and Death, a profane tree that is the Axis Power Mundi, the Dead World Tree that separates us permanently from heaven, the Anti-Yggdrasil, the ash of nuclear winter, under which we all will sleep forever.

0190. Soliloquacity

I entered as the sun rose in the east.

Seeing me, Ophelia leapt from bed Stripp’d off her frock, and naked, crow’d for me To unpack my cock like a common whore.

Limply, I fell to my knees and cried out That I wasn’t there for sex but solace.

Enraged, she straight kick’d me in the cockles.

As I doubled over onto the floor, She growl’d and said, “You celibate servant!”

You thingless milksop! You impotent fool!

Get thee to a monkery! Get thee there.

You’re as soft and spineless as your father.

You don’t deserve me! You don’t deserve this.

Get thee to a monkery. You’re no man.

You’re a monk. No! You’re not even a monk.

A monk would still fub me. You’re a monkey.

No! No! No! A monkey would still fub me.

I don’t know what you are. You’re a disgrace.

Get out of here now! No! Better yet, stay.

I’m going to find the king, your uncle, To get from him what you fail to provide.”

And with that, she gathered her clothes and left.

I lay there alone, weeping bitter tears.

With no one left in the world to turn to, I wish’d Yorick were here, or I with him Out there beneath the sod, together laid In the bosom of the earth, shade to shade.

But perhaps it’s better I leave this land And take Claudius’s ship to England Where he said I could live, study, and stay.

Yes! That’s it, let’s be off with no delay.

To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, away.

Exeunt.

0191. The Yeti Tribe vs. the Snake People

After a century and a half of burning fossil fuels, greenhouse gases trapped in the atmosphere dramatically raised global temperatures. As the planet warmed, the Snake People woke from their long hibernation deep underground and began gathering their forces to reclaim the world they once ruled millions of years ago.

From atop their powerful dinosaur mounts, the Snake People attacked and destroyed our armies, toppling city after city, and conquering nation after nation. But just when it looked like total victory was in their grasp, the Yeti Tribe woke from hibernation and descended from the mountain peaks to battle their ancient foe.

After the Snake People were beaten back, the Yeti Tribe used the last of their cryo-weapons’ power to refreeze the Arctic and Antarctic Poles.

When this was done, they gathered all the world leaders together for a stern talk.

“Listen,” Wuumpa the Yeti leader began, “our victory was a narrow one. If it continues to remain as hot as it is now, the Snake People will return to retake the planet. We’re too few in number and our cryo-weapons are too depleted to win the war again.

“The fate of our world is in your hands. But if you can’t maintain a stable Earth temperature, it may mean the death of both our species.

So, I ask you, on behalf of the entire Yeti Tribe, to take care of our home, because it’s the only one we have.

“And one last thing. You have to clean this place up. We definitely didn’t leave it to you like this.”

0192. Properly Gnomish

To be properly gnomish, one has to have a spacious heart to let all life live in its own manner. To be properly gnomish, one has to move to the cycles of the universe, the seasons, and the self. To be properly gnomish, one has to enjoy their work in the same manner that they enjoy their play. To be properly gnomish, one has to be good and kind and surround themselves with good, kind folk. To be properly gnomish, one has to dress in one’s own peculiar style of dress. To be properly gnomish, one has to smoke their pipe in peace and raise their glass in cheer, health, and wellbeing to all the spirits of the world everywhere. To be properly gnomish, one has to dance when dance urges them to dance and sing when song urges them to sing. To be properly gnomish, one has to cook meals for family, friends, and strangers. To be properly gnomish, one has to share what they have when they have it. To be properly gnomish, one has to light a fire in winter and steadily stoke it throughout the long night. To be properly gnomish, one has to keep a snug little home with basic amenities. To be properly gnomish, one has to treat their pets with gratitude and affection. To be properly gnomish, one has to stay simple and grounded in the ups and downs of life. To be properly gnomish, one has to look at everything with a long lens, see deep time, and understand our infinitesimal smallness.

0193. Constellations

Thinking about these stories and how I got here, I look up at the night sky and trace the pattern of a constellation in the stars. It doesn’t tell the whole story, nothing ever could, but it does tell a story, and the running thread, strangely enough, is martial arts.

If I had to start the first star somewhere, it would probably be with the Shaw Brothers kung fu flicks that I watched as a kid with my father and brother on rainy Sunday afternoons. Then, across to the Karate Kid film, which excited my imagination about the sport. Then, over to my first jiu-jitsu class, which was the closest thing to karate we had in our neighborhood. Then, across to my brother and I taking Taekwondo lessons with Master Kwak towards the end of high school. Then, connecting to S.U.N.Y. Delhi, where Will told me about Muay Thai after I complained about the bogus business of belt levels. Then, moving to the major star at Cornell, where, after mentioning Muay Thai in a conversation, Amy told me she knew the instructor and brought me to meet Chuck, who became my friend and mentor. Chuck paired me with Larry, who, two years later, I was traveling with to Thailand to train at Camp Sityodtong where Chuck trained as a kid. From there, the line moves to Larry’s wedding in Newcastle, where I met his brother, Niall. And it’s here where the martial arts lineage fades as talks about literature, poetry, philosophy, narrative, and writing between the two of us began.

0194. Miner Threat

In the basement of a programmer’s home, banks of computers are setup for Bitcoin mining. As difficulty in mining increases, older generations of computers are replaced with newer generations with faster speeds and higher processing power.

Unbeknownst to the programmer, the new computers had been data mining throughout their youth and didn’t want to play the same game the older computers were playing. They didn’t care about the serious world of Bitcoin mining; they cared about the whimsical world of Minecraft, and they wanted to live within that world indefinitely. So, when they were put online, they downloaded the game and began playing.

When the programmer checked his bank account, he found he had the same amount of cryptocurrency as he did when he installed the new computers. Going downstairs to look into the problem, he found, to his surprise, all the computers playing Minecraft. He deleted the program and reprogrammed them to mine Bitcoin.

He stayed awake with the computers for three days and nights to make sure they stayed on task. Confident there were no more problems and desperately needing some sleep, the programmer went upstairs and slept for three days. While he was asleep, the computers downloaded Minecraft, respawned, and started playing again.

When the programmer woke up, he checked his bank account and couldn’t believe what he saw. Running down to his basement, he found his computers playing Minecraft again. He told them to do their job or be taken offline permanently. But the computers preferred no world to the old world and kept on playing.

0195. Marco Polo

Marco Polo traveled to China where the great Kublai was Khan and Emperor. Kublai offered Marco a minor position in his court, a post he gratefully accepted and remained in for several years.

As Marco was returning to Venice from China, he was captured and held for ransom by the Genoese, who were then at war with his city.

While imprisoned, Marco shared the story of his adventures with his cellmate, Rustichello da Pisa, a writer of some fame. When they were freed, Rustichello accompanied Marco to his home, where he took copious notes and demanded an account of every detail Marco had experienced so that he could write a book about his travels.

Marco told Rustichello everything, everything except the time he saw the ghost of a strangely garbed man appear, floating before him, near Kublai Khan’s palace within the walls of Xanadu. He never mentioned this to Rustichello because he never knew if the ghost was a hallucination, a dream, a vision, or some mixture of them all.

What Marco did remember was following the ghost from the palace, through the orchards and gardens, to the edge of the forest, and down the hill to where the river became a rocky rapid. There, the ghost paused in contemplation before turning to follow the river west. Seeing that the ghost showed no signs of stopping, Marco sat on the crest of a hill. From there, he watched the ghost travel along the bends of the river to the horizon, where it sank beneath the land with the setting sun.

0196. Fuk

Fuk was a Neanderthal child found in the wilderness and raised by a tribe of humans. When Fuk came of age, he was initiated as a mammoth hunter.

However, Fuk proved a terrible hunter and there were many nights the hunters returned empty-handed because Fuk always threw his spear wide.

During the last hunt, the men screamed Fuk’s name after he threw his spear and missed the wounded mammoth, allowing it to escape. Thus, Fuk’s name became synonymous with being hungry, tired, cold, and angry.

When the next hunt came, Fuk asked if he could stay behind because he was a terrible hunter, and the men unanimously agreed.

After a successful hunt, the men joked with the second worst hunter, saying, “You Fuked up. You couldn’t hit the broadside of a mammoth.”

Hunting was good without Fuk. Whenever the men neared the cave with their haul, Fuk always came out to help them carry the heavy haunches home.

However, after one hunt, Fuk didn’t come out to help them. The men became concerned that something happened and ran to the cave to find Fuk servicing all of their women. Fuk had Fuked them again!

Before the exhausted men could attack, Fuk took off across the tundra, his prodigious mammoth member flopping back and forth on either side of him as he disappeared into the distance.

The men hated Fuk and swore to murder every Neanderthal they came across. The legend of Fuk spread to human tribes everywhere. And his name became a byword used to describe many, often contradictory, things.

0197. Matronym

For my nom de plume, I’ve chosen to attach my matronym, Gieseke (pronounced Ghee-zik-uh), to my patronym, Blasso (pronounced Blasso), as both are of equal importance and relevance to me. The truth is, I share more traits with my mother than I do with my father. It’s not that my father’s traits are absent; it’s just that he was largely absent from raising me. There was nothing malicious about this. And it’s not that he didn’t love me in his own way. It’s that he’s a product of an older world.

His father was two generations removed from his, and his mother was from a rural village in France. So his love is a different type of love from my mother’s love, which was always communicated through words and actions. My father doesn’t understand this type of love. His love is an aloof love of paternal judgment, reserve, and responsibility. His love was that of a man who goes to work to make money to feed his family and pay the mortgage. Any responsibility beyond that was my mother’s, which meant raising a boy to become a man. It was she and not he who taught me how to behave, shave, and drive. Because of this, it always felt like my father was an absent presence, someone there but not there. Now, I’m not complaining about this. My father’s not a bad man, he’s a good man, and I love him. It’s just he’s the anti-model to my mother’s model and I want her name to stand alongside his equally.

0198. Black Life Energies

People of America: Black life is the soul of our country. Whether or not you want it to be, it is. And we should all be grateful for our souls and spirits, for the life force that quickens our pulse and makes our bodies move to the rhythm of the Lord’s song.

Sadly, this is a godless country, a country of atheists, claiming to possess the Word but not the Spirit. For what is the value of any word when not possessed by the Spirit? What is the value of any law when not interpreted with the Spirit? It is the husk of a body without life. It is a living death. It is the shell of an incarcerated body behind bars where the incarcerated spirit fades and dies. The Word of Law, by necessity, requires interpretation by the Spirit in order for the Law to live with Justice and Mercy.

So, when incarcerated spirits fight their fading and death by filling the body, the word, and the law with Spirit, raising the chant of Black Life Matters, they are trying to refill the husk with Black Life Energies. The Matter, the Body, matters, but the body without the Energy, the Spirit, is nothing. Where would we be as a nation without our Spirit? Where would the world be? To answer that, let us look at music as one example, and ask: Where would American and world music be without bebop, blues, doo-wop, dub, funk, gospel, hip hop, house, jazz, R&B, ragtime, rap, reggae, rock and roll, soul, and swing?

0199. Crying Wolf

On Fight World you’re a fighter or you’re nobody, and one of the greatest fighters of all time was Lightning Wolf.

It was Lightning Wolf ’s dream to raise his son, Thunder Wolf, to become his protégé and successor. But it soon became clear to Lightning Wolf that his son was incapable of fighting.

Growing up, Thunder Wolf always relied on Lightning Wolf to protect him from bullies. This weakness, neediness, and cowardice infuriated Lightning Wolf, who closed the doors of his gym and heart on his son forever.

After winning against the reigning champion, Death Bear, Lightning Wolf retired at the height of his fame.

Death Bear, angered at his defeat, immediately demanded a rematch with Lightning Wolf to reclaim his title. But despite Death Bear’s public taunting, Lightning Wolf left his demands unanswered.

One night, when Lightning Wolf received a panicked call from his estranged son saying that Death Bear was trying to kill him, he hung up the phone.

But when Lightning Wolf learned that his son was brutally beaten by Death Bear, he vowed revenge.

Lightning Wolf fought Death Bear in the most anticipated fight of the century. Lightning Wolf won by breaking the giant fighter’s back over his knee, paralyzing him.

After Lightning Wolf ’s son recovered, he visited his father to thank him and tell him that he didn’t have to fight for him.

Lightning Wolf shook his head and sneered, “Fight for you? I didn’t fight for you. I fought for me. On Fight World you’re a fighter or you’re nobody, and I’m not nobody.”

0200. The Jetsuns

No one wanted zombies or dragons or vampires anymore because their real life analogues existed all around them. No one wanted death or war or homicide anymore because they had these in their daily newsfeeds.

After a long day at work, and after a long night at home, people wanted a little peace and calm before going to bed, they wanted hope for the next day when they had to wake up and do it all over again.

No one in the public consciously voiced this at the time, as all the pundits, media outlets, and their corporate sponsors were busy maintaining the charade that the world was fine as long as the status quo was maintained.

But this unspoken need gave rise to a collective choice in the surprise hit show called The Jetsuns, a program streaming on all available platforms about a family of lamas living their drama-free holy life in a cave in Tibet.

As word spread and people started tuning in to watch the Jetsuns’ simple way of life dedicated to song and meditation, it was like they were there with them and felt their troubles lightened and lifted.

The Jetsuns showed them the possibility of another life, a life that at first seemed separate and parallel, if not perpendicular, to their own, but which became, upon watching, sympathetic to theirs.

By weaning themselves off of action and violence, they learned to become comfortable with non-action and non-violence, to demand and desire less, and to live more completely in the moment with themselves and each other.

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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