Saturday, January 18, 2014
A Diabolical Pact
Here, courtesy of Wikipedia, is a page written in backwards Latin, supposedly codifying the agreement between Catholic Priest Urbain Grandier and a whole bunch of Demons, including Lucifer, Satan, Astaroth, and a few others. Apparently, in exchange for his soul, Grandier would become completely irresistible to women, would have the friendship of the rich and powerful, and would himself receive more than his fair share of worldly power and pleasure. This document was used as evidence for Grandier's diabolical powers in his trial, eventually sending him to be burned at the stake.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Saturday, January 11, 2014
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Friday, January 10, 2014
Practical Solutions to Elf Problems
Being a Tale Originally Told Upon Twitter, in Thirteen Parts
The Elves would come every full moon, stealing young men from the village and dancing them to death in the forest. Priests prayed. Wizards chanted. Witches tried to trap them in silver circles. Nothing worked, and they danced on.
"Superstitious crap," scoffed Auntie. "We need less magic and more thinking," she said, heading for the clocktower. Auntie spent all day disassembling the clock's mechanism, hamming and welding and cursing and wrenching.
The moon rose, and the piping began. But when the young men stumbled towards the woods, a new figure followed. Auntie and I watched from the clearing's edge. Her clockwork man, tall and bronze, gleamed in the torchlight. The Elf Queen's cat-eyes glittered. He bowed. She kicked off her unicorn-hide moccasins and took him in her arms. Pipes and drums echoed. She was dark and fluid, he was cool and metallic. She laughed at the moon, and they danced.
All night he clicked along, the Queen sweating, her people stamping feet and cheering. The moon sank, the sun rose. The elves left at dawn. The Queen led the clockwork man into the wood. Auntie threw her his key. The Queen waved.
The elves still dance, but now they don't take our young men. You can hear pipes, and laughter, and his ticking. For saving them, Auntie had her pick of the young men. I don't believe she's decided on one, just yet.
That's when I developed my love of science. Thanks for considering my application to your University's program.
The Elves would come every full moon, stealing young men from the village and dancing them to death in the forest. Priests prayed. Wizards chanted. Witches tried to trap them in silver circles. Nothing worked, and they danced on.
"Superstitious crap," scoffed Auntie. "We need less magic and more thinking," she said, heading for the clocktower. Auntie spent all day disassembling the clock's mechanism, hamming and welding and cursing and wrenching.
The moon rose, and the piping began. But when the young men stumbled towards the woods, a new figure followed. Auntie and I watched from the clearing's edge. Her clockwork man, tall and bronze, gleamed in the torchlight. The Elf Queen's cat-eyes glittered. He bowed. She kicked off her unicorn-hide moccasins and took him in her arms. Pipes and drums echoed. She was dark and fluid, he was cool and metallic. She laughed at the moon, and they danced.
All night he clicked along, the Queen sweating, her people stamping feet and cheering. The moon sank, the sun rose. The elves left at dawn. The Queen led the clockwork man into the wood. Auntie threw her his key. The Queen waved.
The elves still dance, but now they don't take our young men. You can hear pipes, and laughter, and his ticking. For saving them, Auntie had her pick of the young men. I don't believe she's decided on one, just yet.
That's when I developed my love of science. Thanks for considering my application to your University's program.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Friday, November 15, 2013
Flash Fiction 4: Flashier, Fictionier
Inscribed in electrons, I present more Flash Fictions from my #FlashFictionFriday series, from that there tweeter.
It's the thought that counts and I appreciate the gifts, really, but what I am supposed to do with seven Hands of Glory?
The bunkers were packed with cigarettes. "Gold-hording Libertarians are kicking themselves now," laughed the SectorLord
Velvet wings whispered between the cold smokestacks of the factory ruins. Moths, searching for puddles, found only bones.
Silence screamed. From upstairs they heard the click of the latch, the groan of hinges as the door opened.
The noise jolted him awake in time to see the old oak topple over. Below in the yard was the biggest pig he'd ever seen.
He mounted the bus steps, handed his ticket to the driver, took a set at the back, and waited. Even in death, he waited.
He watched snails graze in light streaming down through the dome of trees. He too was patient. Night would come soon.
Always digging, dirt on his claws, pinpoint eyes shut against failing soil. A purpose, his reward for having lived well.
I understand it's an ancient and powerful urge, returning whence you were born to lay your eggs. But it's MY head now.
Their noises were getting to him. He'd walled off the bedroom, cooked his meals in the bathroom. How dare they be happy?
His bones bounced along the riverbed, scattered and seperated by the flow. He'd always wanted to see the ocean.
In the right light, the hen was opalescent. Each laid egg was a cosmic egg, a universe in ovo. Made the best omelettes.
"It's like 'Dorian Grey'."
"So you don't get any older..."
"Right."
"...and the souffle?"
"The souffle ages for me."
The tractor's rumble grew louder as it crested the hill. Head down, she worked fast, brushing pollen into each flower.
Earth's tilt causes the changing seasons. Hades, in his mad pursuit of Persephone, sideswiped the axis in his chariot.
The Change came every fullmoon. Terrible urges, body warping. Smell, hearing, all gone. Sparky hated being a Wereman.
It's the thought that counts and I appreciate the gifts, really, but what I am supposed to do with seven Hands of Glory?
The bunkers were packed with cigarettes. "Gold-hording Libertarians are kicking themselves now," laughed the SectorLord
Velvet wings whispered between the cold smokestacks of the factory ruins. Moths, searching for puddles, found only bones.
Silence screamed. From upstairs they heard the click of the latch, the groan of hinges as the door opened.
The noise jolted him awake in time to see the old oak topple over. Below in the yard was the biggest pig he'd ever seen.
He mounted the bus steps, handed his ticket to the driver, took a set at the back, and waited. Even in death, he waited.
He watched snails graze in light streaming down through the dome of trees. He too was patient. Night would come soon.
Always digging, dirt on his claws, pinpoint eyes shut against failing soil. A purpose, his reward for having lived well.
I understand it's an ancient and powerful urge, returning whence you were born to lay your eggs. But it's MY head now.
Their noises were getting to him. He'd walled off the bedroom, cooked his meals in the bathroom. How dare they be happy?
His bones bounced along the riverbed, scattered and seperated by the flow. He'd always wanted to see the ocean.
In the right light, the hen was opalescent. Each laid egg was a cosmic egg, a universe in ovo. Made the best omelettes.
"It's like 'Dorian Grey'."
"So you don't get any older..."
"Right."
"...and the souffle?"
"The souffle ages for me."
The tractor's rumble grew louder as it crested the hill. Head down, she worked fast, brushing pollen into each flower.
Earth's tilt causes the changing seasons. Hades, in his mad pursuit of Persephone, sideswiped the axis in his chariot.
The Change came every fullmoon. Terrible urges, body warping. Smell, hearing, all gone. Sparky hated being a Wereman.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Friday, November 8, 2013
A Good Thought
"Never confuse comedy for subversion." - somebody somewhere at sometime. I can't seem to find a citation for this quote, or even a quote like it, but someone smarter than me must have said it once. It's a pretty good thing to always have tucked into the back of your brain, I think, especially how a lot of the media and culture we consume seems to think that simply winking at the audience while something deplorable is going on is the same thing as activism. Having a bunch of over the top racism, sexism, homophobia, etc, isn't PLAYING with the tropes, buddy; at best it's lazy ass writing, and at worst, it's just straight up racism, sexism, and homophobia.
Friday, November 1, 2013
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