The Chamberlain Look

When Chris and Billy dumped pigs blood on her at her prom queen inauguration, many assumed Carrie White got her revenge via the fire and electricity and telekinesis. She did, naturally. But that wasn't her only revenge. By all accounts, it wasn't even her best.

The best revenge, they say, is to live well, to succeed in spite of others. It was too late to live well—her mother had seen to that—but that did not mean she couldn't still succeed after everything that happened.

After all, Carrie was prom queen, and everyone wants to be a prom queen. Soon it was considered the height of fashion to wear fine gowns drenched in blood. Even animal rights activists, who didn't care for the slaughter of their furry friends, found ways to ride the trend, often showing up at PETA rallies in fake fur and waiting to be doused in red paint.

The Chamberlain Look as it came to be called (so named for the small town in Maine Carrie destroyed) became an institution with its own rules. Cow's blood for winter, chicken for summer. Never wear heels. Hair down. And of course, one couldn't dump the blood on herself, for the Chamberlain look historically was not something you did, but something done to you. Blooding salons popped up all across the country, each offering their own styles and methods. The Classic Bucket, the Pollack, the Hose, the Shower, the Sprinkler.

It was a better revenge than Carrie could have hoped for, if only she were alive to enjoy it.

- Originally mailed to H. Kay of Portsmouth, England

Jealousy

To say Rebecca was a jealous woman was to say the ocean had a little water in it. Where others had to walk on eggshells, her boyfriend Richard's life felt much more like waking up in the middle of a minefield.

"Your professor is cute. Are you seeing her behind my back?"

"Who is this 'Mom' you've been calling?"

"Like I'm supposed to believe that man is only here to deliver our pizza."

He had to take a job working from home because she was suspicious of the women in his office, even eighty-four year old Edna Greene, and didn't feel too comfortable with him around men just in case he turned out to be gay.

Soon there was literally no one else in his life but her, but still her fears were not eased. "Who is that I see following you around all the time?" she asked.

"No one!" he swore. "I never even leave the apartment! No one has been in or out but you!"

"Then who is THAT?" she said, thrusting an accusing finger behind him.

He turned to look and saw nothing but his shadow. He looked back to her, confused. Her finger still insisted he explain his non-existent friend, so he turned back again to look. Nothing but...

"You can't be serious."

But she was. And since then, every time Richard heard her familiar knock at his door, he opened his window and had his shadow hide outside until she left again.

- Originally mailed to J. Joyner of Kannapolis, North Carolina

New Tricks: Now in Paperback!

Paperbacks now available on the CreateSpace store, and should be up on Amazon within a week! My comedic fantasy novel New Tricks is now available in paper-and-ink, hold-it-in-your-hands goodness! This book has it all! Danger! Adventure! Laughs! Thrills! Pirates! Henchman Unions! Dungeon Janitors! Three hundred thirty pages of fun! Plus an original drinking song, sheet music included! How can you say no to that?

If money is tight, and you can't get a copy (or maybe it's just not your thing), I understand. If you can please share the link, that's just as appreciated. I have a baby named Penelope coming, and I hear those are expensive.

New Tricks: A Shameless Shill Post

My first novel, New Tricks, is available on the Kindle Store (and will be available in print once I can get the proof approved).


The Twelve Realms are a land of magic, danger, and prophecy, where Chosen Ones rise to save the world in its darkest hours. But will anyone even notice when the inconsequential village of Barrowsend stands on the brink of destruction?

Everyone, even the legendary hero Olivander, knows that William, a humble boy of fifteen, has been Chosen to save the town.

There's just one slight problem.

William might not be the Chosen One...


A novel for anyone who has ever been picked last.

This book has it all! Comedy! Fantasy! Action! Adventure! Pirates! Monsters! Treasure! Henchmen Unions! Dungeon janitors! And at just three bucks, you're looking at a penny a page! What a deal! Plus, Kindle owners (with Amazon Prime) can borrow the book and read it for free! Free laughs! Free thrills! What a better deal!

Plus, my wife says I shouldn't feel bad shamelessly plugging it. I got laid off last week, she's almost eight months pregnant, and diapers don't come cheap. So please, help an unemployed writer take care of his baby. If you can't get a copy or just don't want to, I understand. Things are tight all around, and comedy fantasy isn't for everyone. If you should share the link, however, I'd take that just as kindly. Again, I apologize for being shameless and self-promotey like this, but it's a rough boat I'm in now, and the baby comes before pride.

Reminder: Hiatus

A quick reminder: Do to my many current writing obligations, there will be no regularly scheduled stories for June, or the foreseeable future for that matter. I will still send out stories to people who e-mail me to request them, but I won't be able to do a full twenty a month. If you want one, feel free to drop me a line at sean.arthur.cox@gmail.com and I will put one in the mail for you, but there won't be the usual surprise post cards to past recipients to fill out the month until I can get caught up on everything else.

The Optimistic Dock

Anticipating global warming, melting polar ice caps, and all the cataclysm that would come with it, Logan Vandermar bought a tract of muddy land near the shores of his hometown, and built a boat dock. People laughed and called him a fool but he shrugged them off. When the waters rose, they would be clamoring for a docking slip on his property, what with all the other piers having been submerged when the poles thawed. He built a boat in the mudflats too, hoping to attract early investors. The investors laughed as well. Still, he waited patiently and tracked every unusually hot day, every unseasonal tornado, and every record temperature to remind himself that his day in the sun was coming. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The oceans would rise and they would come and ask to rent a boat slip, and then it would be his turn to laugh.

Originally mailed to M.T. in Seoul, South Korea

The Pit

The town of Meeksville couldn't be more picturesque. They had a barbershop next to an old fashioned soda jerk and ice cream parlor. Their sheriff's office only had one cell, at it mostly just held guys who needed to “cool their jets.” The children were well behaved most of the time, and when they weren't, their mischief was of a wholesome, adorable nature. There was a lovely park where the town gathered every weekend for festivals or movies broadcast in good old fashioned technicolor larger than life on the big screen. It was the kind of place where the scent of fresh cut grass and home made cookies always wafted about on a gentle breeze, and guys named Buzz and Skip always gave their pins to their best gal to show they were going steady.

And right there in the middle of the town was a giant pit that led straight to Hell, from which demons would nightly rise. Some towns would have called it a day and moved, but not Meeksville. Their Leave It to Beaver optimism couldn't be deterred by anything, so rather than get down in the dumps about it, they looked on the bright side. The demons helped keep kids in loving homes and off the streets at night. Church attendance was up, up, up, property taxes were down, down, down, and the stone work had a sort of rustic charm to it.


- Originally mailed to C. Townsend in Hattiesburg, Mississippi

Safe and Sound

The tiny hamlet of Otisburg sat nestled safely between several mountains and a large lake. It had been here for centuries, unmolested. When war came, it walked around. It was too much work, the generals would say, for such an insignificant town. Invaders paid them no mind. In fact, the town had been mostly undisturbed since its creation a thousand years prior. This didn't surprise anyone. People in the surrounding area proclaimed the wisdom of Otisburg's founders to have chosen such a remote spot for their village to ensure its safety. They had no clue just how dedicated the founders had been to keeping access to their small village restricted. When the first buildings went up in the eleventh century, the town sat in the middle of a broad plain, but over the years, the residents of the town carved a massive lake out of the earth to the south and used the dirt and bedrock to build up the mountainous landscape that surrounded them. They were not safe because they were surrounded by mountains. They built up the mountains because they wanted to be safe.


- Originally mailed to L. Sims in Hattiesburg, Mississippi

A Stone House

Ever since she was a little girl, Alyssa wanted a stone house. Not brick. Stone. She wanted a castle at first, but later decided even a cottage would do if she could just reach out and feel honest to goodness solid rock protecting her from the elements. Unfortunately for her, stone was expensive in her part of the world. She lived on highly arable flatlands, sweeping plains that were perfect for farming because of the utter lack of rocks in the soil. Still, a dream, no matter how mad or expensive, will not simply die away.


As with all dreams, in order to survive, her stone home longing had to adapt, had to compromise. She looked at the wealth she could muster, a pittance to be sure, but she could find a way to make it work. She settled on a one room home. Tiny, only eighty square feet. She had just enough room for a day bed, a tiny shower in the corner, dresser with TV on top, and a single cabinet/counter combo beside a microfridge. She could have a big house later, a full house. One where she couldn't touch every inch of her home and still touch the bed, too. It needn't be made of stone either, she said as she did her best to stretch out on the paltry bed. She could live with something made of wood and plaster. She already had her dream home.


- Originally mailed to P. Walker in Diamondhead, Mississippi

When Rivers Divorce

Their journey together had been a long and winding one. Sometimes it was smooth sailing. Other times they felt like they were in freefall, just waiting to crash. They had their rocky patches and their serene moments. Even so, after ten thousand years and two hundred and seventeen miles, the river's waters decided they had run their course together and that it was time to get a divorce. They split the path, one taking north, the other south, and they would share custody of the midlands. Both tried to take the high road, but in the end, the proceedings went down hill. The transition was rocky, but necessary. It would take ages before they would understand their new paths in the world and they would eventually meet new people and travel to new villages. In the end, they would both be happier. 


- Originally mailed to S. Sartin in Atlanta, Georgia

Artistic Integrity

Eloise was an excellent artist who refused to compromise her artistic integrity for any reason. As a child, her teacher would tell her to color the sky blue, but she would refuse, saying the neutral beige better captured humanity's indifference toward the splendor of nature, and she bore the failing grade proudly. “An artist is never understood in her time, and critics do nothing but reveal their own lack of imagination.”

Her work was spectacular to be sure, and in time, she would become the rare breed that is both successful and respected in the art community. She had a wealth of fans and a dearth of detractors. Even contemptuous up-and-comers and counter-culture painters didn't resent her fame. As an artist, she led a charmed life.

All was not sunshine and daisies, however, for though he had talent, passion, and an adamant stance against selling out to cash in, her efforts often did her more harm than good. She could not doodle. Every bored thought needed to be a masterpiece, and every simple shopping list became an homage to classic early 20^th century advertising.


- Originally mailed to T. York of Witchita Falls, Texas

The Remake

Hollywood had run out of ideas (again) and decided to remake the film Snatch. However, because Hollywood hated to admit it had run out of ideas (again), they changed the title to Grab and set it two hundred years in the past. The cars became carriages. The Desert Eagle .50 became a Colt revolver. Other than that, nothing changed at all. Mickey was still a gypsy who wanted a caravan. Characters still gambled and lost on prize fights, and brick top still kept pigs. Critics caught the blatant story theft. Some bemoaned it. Others called it clever (notably, the same critics who call it clever when someone pitches Hamlet... in SPACE!!!). Movie buffs proclaimed it the death knell of studio cinema. The saddest part, however, were the kids who grew up with Grab, and who, upon seeing Snatch years later, would call it a ripoff inexplicably set at the end of the 20^th century, and bemoan how unimaginative Hollywood was.


- Originally mailed to T. Switzer in Biloxi, Mississippi

That Gets My Goat

Aiden Mulronny had a special way of dealing with those who grated on his last nerve. Some people, when they become frustrated with a person or situation, would declare, “That really gets my goat.”

Aiden decided to take that literally. He scoured the countryside seeking out the most obstinate, ornery goat he could find, and when a person peeved him, they got his goat. He would discreetly sneak onto their property at night and leave the creature where they would find it, no doubt making a mess of their trash and bleating all night.

“Hey, I got your goat,” they would say.


“So you did,” he would reply, knowingly.

“Well, it goat got into my (yard/garden/kitchen). How can I get it back to you?”

And he would always find some excuse to put off getting the goat back for a week. He was busy, so he couldn't come get it. No, he wouldn't be home then for you to drop it off. Nope. Not home then either. Tell you what, he probably has time Thursday. He could take the goat back then.


When you got his goat, you got it for a week.


- Originally mailed to J. Harmon in Fort Hachuca, Arizona

Hal the Wonder Goat

The town of Kerry erected a statue to Hal the Wonder Goat. Hal could do sums, but that's not what made him the Wonder Goat. It wasn't that he could fly or shoot lasers from his eyes. He could, but that wasn't what made him the Wonder Goat.


What made Hal the Wonder Goat was that he once ate a tin can, and everyone watched in awe as the chewed up metal failed to give the goat indigestion. This amazed the residents of Kerry, for they knew the stories of goats eating tin cans were just myths. Still, Hal did not seem to know, and as a tiny kid, he nibbled down a can of baked beans, metal and all.


The town erected a statue of their marvelous goat in the center of town, and every day as Hal would walk by, he would think, “They made a statue of me. I sure must be wonderful.”

And so he tried wonderful things, fueled only by the belief that he must be able to do them, or else why would the poor farmers have erected a statue in his honor? And so he balanced the village budget. He put out fires with his ice breath. He ran a successful campaign for mayor. In his life, he did many wonderful things because he knew he was wonderful.


- Originally mailed to J. Tahon of De Haan, Belgium

Dreams of Swimming

The tree's mother specifically forbade him from swimming in the lake. He tried arguing with her, pointing out that trees need water to grow big and strong, and more water meant more big and more strong. Still, she would have none of it. He sulked and moaned as he watched other children go for a swim. It looked to be such fun, all the splashing about. Why couldn't he?

One warm summer day, he decided he had had quite enough of this no-swimming policy nonsense. He stripped off his bark, pulled up his roots, and did the most epic canonball the world had ever seen. He splashed and frolicked. He did poorly at Marco Polo but excelled at chicken fighting. No one could knock the other children out of his branches.


Of course, it wasn't long before his mother came looking. A missing tree does not go unnoticed for long. The other children told him he needed to hide if he wanted to keep playing, so the tree ducked behind the biggest thing he could find, a half submerged stone wall in the middle of the lake. It would have been a fine spot for a human child, but a tree is a much larger creature. He assumed, because he could not see beyond the wall when he ducked, that others could not see him. A child's logic. His mother spotted him at once, and despite his protests that she must have him confused with some other tree, she saw through his ruse and made him come home. Still, for one glorious day, he was the king of the lake, and no one could take that memory away from him. 


- Originally mailed to J. Coulton of Brooklyn, New York

The Great Stone Wall

There was a great stone wall that stretched impossibly high into the sky, and stretching all the way to the horizon in either direction. There at the base was a wooden door that could only be opened from the opposite side. Where along the wall the door was didn't matter, because it didn't matter where a person was along its length when he approached. The door could best be described as “near.” Starting just beside the door, one would find a stairwell leading up along the wall from it. Narrow stone slabs jutted out from the wall, rising hundreds of feet into the air and ending at a recession and a wooden door that opened perpendicular to the great stone face. When one made the climb and went through the wooden door, one found himself standing on the grass beside a stairwell stretching hundreds of feet into the air along the flat side of an impossibly tall stone wall that stretched to the horizon in either direction, and if one were to allow the wooden door to close behind them, they would find that it could only be opened from the other side. Perhaps they would climb the stairs again in hopes of going through the next door to return to the other side, where they might climb back down. And if one did, he would find himself standing on the grass beside a stairwell stretching hundreds of feet into the air along the flight side of an impossibly tall stone wall that stretched to the horizon in either direction. And if one were to turn away from the wall and go home, one would find that the world was right where they left it, regardless of how many stairs they had climbed. And one would develop an uneasy reassurance that they were, in fact, safe and sound in their own beds on their own streets, but every time they misremembered something—Did Sir Ian McKellan sign my picture with silver ink or black? Was Marsha's phone number 0918 or 0981? Are the lyrics “Bye bye, baby” or “Bye my baby—one would always wonder whether one made it home after all.


- Originally mailed to J. Womack of Brooklyn, New York

The Proper Path

“You can't enter the castle through the paved road,” said Todd. “That's an anachronism.”


They'd been debating how to properly enter the castle for an hour. Todd said that they couldn't enjoy the castle to its fullest degree if they entered on anything other than the dirt path with authentic carriage ruts. “The road,” he said, “sets the tone for the entire visit.”

Steve hoped that Todd would be appeased if they simply parked the car a mile away and walked the rest of the distance.

“If we go in through the front gate, we get to start in the court yard where the knights and squires are practicing swordplay. The hunting gate makes us start our tour in the smelly old stables.”


Todd wouldn't budge, and in the end, Steve relented. They entered through along the dirt path through the hunting gate to enjoy the most authentic experience before picking up plastic swords and post cards in the gift shop.


- Originally mailed to J. St. John of Picayune, Mississippi

The Distant Boat

He had been lost in the woods for days, though he couldn't say how. Deep down, he know how. The woods were alive and sought to trap him forever. He knew it, but he couldn't say it.

He had only stepped off the road to relieve himself. He hadn't even gone ten feet from the road. He could see his car from where he stood, but there was a skittering noise in the leaves, and he turned to look, to be sure some wolf had not come for him. He saw nothing but trees. He finished his restroom break, and turned back to his car, but once more, he saw nothing but trees. Dense, dark forest where once there had been a car and a road. He stumbled blindly through the pines and briars where he knew there should be two paved lanes and 1976 Trans Am.

He wandered for hours until the sun gave way to alien stars and the darkest night he had ever experienced. Then dawn came, not with the blazing glow of the sun, but with a sky that simply became less black. Still he stumbled onward, and the brambles tore at his clothes and skin. He had found no water to drink, and only berries that filled his mind with lightning and his limbs with fire.

On the third day without food or water or sign of life, he found a river, and therein, a boat. Where there were boats, there were towns. He would drink the cool, black water. He could swim to the boat and rest and let the current carry him down stream where someone would find him. His fevered brain burned with excitement.

But he never reached the boat. He entered the stagnant water and swam, and with every stroke, the ancient canoe moved father away. The river's black hands reached for him, tugged at him, and the unfamiliar stars laughed at him, and he swam on and on toward a boat he would never catch.


- Originally mailed to A. Chance of Brandon, Mississippi

A Dream of Trees

One day, a young boy who heard the tale of Johnny Appleseed and longed to follow in those footsteps and create a forest of his own. Not apples, though. He hated apples. Also, he lived in the city, where there was precious little soil, and precious fewer tree seeds. Naturally, he did what any child would do in such a situation. He built a forest in his imagination. He started with clay, stretching it out, pulling pieces into long strange branches, for he lived in a city and didn't know much what a tree was supposed to look like. His looked like gum or pulled taffy with flecks of torn green construction paper. His older brother pointed this out to him, so he started over. He sought out brown construction paper and twisted it tightly for the trunk, and once more, topped it with flecks of torn green construction paper. His brother tormented him again for his trees, and the boy abandoned his dream of creating a forest.

As an adult, he became a botanist and got a job with the park service. Though he had not thought back to the day his brother teased him in years, it all came flooding back to him as he patrolled the north eastern corner of a national park that employed him. There in a small clearing, he saw them, just as he had made them in his youth. The trees of clay and paper, waiting for him, as real as life.


-Orignally mailed to C. Procenko in Toronto, Ontario in Canada

A Sort of Hiatus

Just a heads up. I am WAY behind on my backlog of writing projects. I have two novels I need to finish revising, at least one novel that needs finishing (more than that, actually, but I'm actively working on one), plus a friend of mine has asked me to co-create a TV pilot with him. There aren't enough hours in the day.

Stories will be posted throughout the rest of the month, but come June, the steady stream will slow down considerably.

I will still send out stories to people who e-mail me to request them, but I won't be able to do a full twenty a month. If you want one, feel free to drop me a line at sean.arthur.cox@gmail.com and I will put one in the mail for you, but there won't be the usual surprise post cards to past recipients until I can get caught up on everything else.

Climbing the Mountain

Her bucket list said “climb a mountain,” but life got in the way, then kids, then health. In her seventies, she had all but given up on the dream until her grandson stepped in. Inspired by his grandmother, he too had also put mountain climbing on his list. She lamented not going and made him promise that he wouldn't let anything get in his way.


“Okay. But you're going with me,” he said.

“No, I'm too old,” she said and made herself comfortable in her recliner.

Two months later, he showed up at her home with two plane tickets. “You told me not to let anyone stop me,” he said. “And since I won't go with you, and you refuse to go, I won't let you stop yourself.”

“It's too high,” she said.

“Smallest mountain in the world.”

“It's cold,” she said.

He pulled a new parka from a bag. She gave in, and at seventy-one years old, she climbed her mountain.


- Originally mailed to M. Whitfield of Gulfport, Mississippi

Mossy

Everyone has heard tales of Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, famed for her grainy three hump appearances in the waves of Loch Ness in Scotland. Much less known in cryptozoological circles was Mossy, a creature much smaller than Nessie and land-based. Still, when people would roam the forests of Ireland, they would hear the rustle of leaves and glance to the tall grasses to see him, his long moss covered neck sticking out of the weeds, followed by two mossy humps, and then in the blink of an eye, he'd be gone again. Even when intrepid nature hikers were able to snap off a shot before the creature vanished into the undergrowth, skeptics laughed them aside, calling it a photo of “some mossy roots and stumps and rocks, nothing more.”

Still, though not as prolific as Nessie believers, Mossy's fans were no less dedicated to bringing to light the plight of their lonely, leafy friend to light.

Originally mailed to M. Wilkes in Jackson, Mississippi

The Curse

There once was a lovely, but vain princess who spurned every pauper and prince who wooed her for none were “handsome enough or rich enough” to deserve her. One such suitor's mother was a powerful witch. Being the loving, but overbearing mother that she was, she took none too kindly to the gross abuse her sweet and compassionate son suffered under the princess's cruel hand, and so she cursed the damsel that she would be a tree until she could learn to love someone for their heart and not their superficialities and accidents of birth.

Decades passed and she only grew more resentful. Her new branches and roots grew wild, blocking the paths of those who would pass her and not marvel at her perfection. Apples fell rotten from her branches, for those who came to collect didn't deserve her fruits. Offering nothing worth eating and slowing travel besides, people began to view the tree as a better source for firewood than food. She, in turn, would grow fruit more foul, for why would she want to help those who abused her?

One day, a scraggly farmer found the tree and brought it fertilizer and tended to the moss that had leeched its nutrients away. “How can a tree grow proper fruit if it grows in such poor conditions?” He trimmed the tree and cared for it, and soon it grew good fruit. When the farmer ate the first good fruit the tree had ever born, there was a flash of light and the tree was once more a princess. However, she had spent too many years as a tree, gnarled and bitter and ugly, and the very wrath that caused her to twist her limbs to spite others in the past now had turned her into a grotesque mockery of what she once was.

She was withered and old, a hideous mass of writhing, misshapen limbs and rough and rotten flesh. The farmer ran in horror suspecting that the tree had, in fact, been a hideous beast only pretending to be a tree to lure him in close and devour him. All her past misdeeds had come back to haunt her in each extra arm or withered stump. That's when she learned the witch's real curse. That others would see her as she truly was. 


Originally mailed to K. Bravo of Olathe, Kansas

The Time Stream

Geologists throw around phrases about certain geological phenomena stretching back to this epoch or that. “These mountains go all the way back to the Jurassic period.”

In the particular case of an unobtrusive stream in Killarney, Ireland, it was particularly true. The observation that it went all the way back to Miocene epoch was true not only geologically, but also geographically. It began in Killarney seven million years ago and ended in Cork in an age not yet named. A person could walk along its banks, and they would experience nothing but the soothing sounds of water flowing. If a person were to enter the stream and follow its course, however, they would move forward or backward through time according to whether they went with or against the current. How much time they traversed depended entirely on where they entered the stream and how far they traveled. A person entering at the mouth in Cork could only go backward in time, and at a relatively slow pace. At the source of the river, they could only move forward, and from the center, they could move in either direction in time at a pace proportional to the distance between entering the river and either end. Many people became lost to time that way, going for a swim in the holocene epoch and freezing when they exited in the pleistocene.

Little archeological evidence of the phenomena exists, however, for of the many creatures that fell victim to the stream's choronological anomaly, very few creatures walked along in the waters of a stream for long, and thus were only mildly displaced in time, and virtually unaffected in climate. Extinction being a gradual process, the fossil record for animals didn't change much, and most modern humans, lacking in the wilderness skills and bacterial immunities of their ancestors, died before they could hope to create any signs of their anachronism.



- Originally mailed to J. Witten in Oxford, Mississippi

Troll Teeth

“Please can I have some change so I can brush my teeth?”

“No dear,” said the mother troll. “You'll ruin your chompers.”

“No I won't!” the child protested. “Not if I only chew one.”


“You know you don't have that sort of self control. You'll use both brushes and when you go to the dentist, it'll be cavities, cavities, cavities.”

“But I like the way it tickles my gums!”


“I said no. It scrapes the protective film off your teeth and lets germs in. Your teeth will decay and when you grow up, you won't be able to get a good job. No one wants to hire a troll to guard a bridge if he doesn't even have teeth enough to bite a knight in half.”


- Originally mailed to P. Wilkinson of Vancleave, Mississippi

The Path of Life

Many cultures believe that life is a path that starts in one place, ends in another, and has its sights to see, its difficulties, and places to stop and rest. But what of the before and after? What waits at the end of the path, and where did we start? What are you supposed to do once you've reached the end?

The Kawasi people believe that life is a path that winds from the bottom of a mountain to the top. There is nothing at the top of the mountain. There is nothing at the bottom. There is only the path which is built as they climb, and once a person has made their way to the top, the turn around and travel to the bottom, back and forth. The path never changes, but they are free to travel it as they please, and dwell as long as they wish at any part.

But, they say, one must remember to build the path wisely. A portion built in anger will always be filled with anger, and though we may wish to dwell for the rest of eternity in this moment or that, we must still pass through all the moments inbetween to get there. It is wisdom, then, to build a path as peaceful and beautiful as possible on the first climb to the top, so that as one spends the rest of eternity traveling the old road, one finds happiness and beauty wherever one goes, and needs not fear to revisit any dark places.


Originally mailed to J. Stillman of New York City, New York

Forgot to upload!

Sorry, everyone! I got mixed up. Thought today was still April, so I put off uploading stories until this evening. I now realize April only has 30 days. Stories will be posted shortly.

Also, as an unofficial theme, all pictures this month were taken by my wife on her trip to Ireland, so it's a semi-sorta international edition. Enjoy.

Death Star on a Budget

Emperor Palpatine was none too happy with the destruction of the first Death Star. Naturally, he insisted on a second, even bigger than the previous one, for it was the backbone of his sinister plans. Though Palpatine was an evil genius, however, he had no mind for business or the cost of running an evil empire. Lord Vader considered pointing out that with the destruction of their staggeringly expensive experimental battle station, one with such a major design flaw, perhaps it would be best to take a moment to go back to the drawing board before putting forth such an egregiously large bond issue before the finance committee. Vader said nothing, of course, because there wasn't much room for logistics when having a discussion with the emperor, what with all of the creepy leering and the lightning.

Palpatine would not take no for an answer, so Lord Vader did what he always did when given an impossible task. He delegated. The head of the finance committee wanted to point out that the empire couldn't afford a second Death Star right now, especially considering the order was for one “just like the first one, only, like, six times bigger.” He didn't even ask if Vader wanted it literally six times bigger, which would not be a large diameter increase or if he wanted the diameter to be six times larger, for there wasn't much room for logistics when having a discussion with Vader, what with all the breathing and the choking. He opted for the bigger one, even though it made the fatal exhaust port big enough to fit a ship into. As for the money, the empire would simply resort to product placement for a little while.

- Originally mailed to J. Hall of Jackson, Mississippi

Shavebacca

In a post-rebellion economy, there simply wasn't much call for a wookie co-pilot/smuggler. It certainly didn't help that Han, his former boss, shut down their independently owned mom-and-pop smuggling operation so he could settle down, get married, and have kids in the suburbs. Facing unemployment, Chewbacca had no choice but to go corporate and look for work in a cubicle somewhere.

The first months were the hardest. Chewie went to countless interviews in dozens of star systems (Han at least had the courtesy to lend him the keys to the Falcon while he went job hunting, provided he paid for his own gas and didn't get any tickets), but nothing panned out. It wasn't until one potential employer gave him some friendly advice.

“Chewie,” said Ted at accounts receivable for Tatooine Moisture Vaporators, LLC. “Do you mind if I call you Chewie? Chewie, your resume looks good. You got great people skills. The thing is, nobody's going to hire a guy who shows up to an interview without any pants on. Watto? Jabba? They don't wear pants, and they're criminals. You want to get hired, you need some nice trousers. Maybe a good suit and tie. At least an oxford and some khakis. While you're at it, you might think about shaving. Not professionally, just as a personal choice. Let me tell you from experience, the ladies love a smooth chested guy.”

- Originally mailed to K. Murphey in Chicago, Illinois

The Bet

Despite having used his own cunning to save his father's life, Indiana Jones felt himself constantly explaining just how difficult chosing the Holy Grail was from so many cups. His father proclaimed the real grail an obvious choice and refused to listen when Indy spoke of anything being obvious once it was pointed out to a person. To settle the matter, they made a bet. They would seek out the immortal knight, reclaim the Holy Grail and choose four other cups from those that had been gathered in the old cave.

“I had to choose from a hundred, but even only picking from five, I'm going to win this one,” the confident Indy said.

The immortal knight tried to protest, but they would hear none of it. At the first hotel they found, they gave the test to a dozen people and only one guessed correctly.

“Beginner's luck,” said Henry Jones, Sr. “These people are into televangelists. They associate God with wealth.”

The three of them went from town to town explaining the bet to everyone they met. Hundreds drank, but only a small number chose the correct cup. Indiana celebrated with champagne, which his father had to pay for. The old knight refused, and instead spent the evening lamenting the hundreds who died agonizing deaths to prove a point.

- Originally mailed to H. Longino from Gulfport, Mississippi

Cloban, God of Crab Pies

Many who entered the Baltimore bakery thought the wall ornament an amusing little metal sun, perhaps fashioned after some celestial diety of a long gone Central American civilization. None suspected the strange truth. The wall mount was actually a shrine to Cloban, the god of crab pies. And why would they suspect it? Most would react with bemused surprise if you were to tell them straight faced that there even was such a thing as a god of crab pies, and virtually no one would believe the Haverchuk family worshiped him.

Still, a crab pie god he was. Where many saw the sun's corona, the Haverchucks saw the edge of a flaky crust, and what patrons of the bakery took for the sun's warm rays were actually Cloban's many red, steamy claws. He was a good of tenderness and flavor and subtlty. His heart was soft as butter, but his wrath as fiery as an oven. His wisdom was as deep as the oceans from whence his meaty filling came.

Long ago, people asked how they made such wonderful crab pies, the bakers used to tell them about their god Cloban, and the people would laugh at them for believing in such a silly god. The Haverchucks tried explaining that their family had worshiped Cloban for generations upon generations, but nothing stopped the accusations that their ancestors just made up a god one day. The Haverchucks tried asking the people how they knew their ancestors didn't just make up their gods centuries ago, but in the end, they decided to just keep silent.

- Originally mailed to S. Troub of Long Beach, Mississippi

The Balancing Table

There was a table on which anything could be balanced with far more ease than anywhere else. Pennies, pens, acrobats, even checkbooks and chakras. No one knew why this was so. Some said it was because the table was absolutely, perfectly flat, but critics said that didn't explain how it helped mentally unstable people find balance. Others claimed the table's balancing powers were magical in nature, but critics simply laughed at them, because magic. There were no special electromagnetic fields, or any sort of harmonious alignment with the planet's gravity. Things simply worked better there than anyplace else on earth.

For the longest time, the table served as a tourist attraction. Nearby were shelves of oddly shaped items that people could balance on the table for a dollar apiece. As years passed, however, this was no longer enough for the owner, who increasingly felt the need to do good with his amazing table. He thought perhaps to take it to San Francisco and erect a building atop it, one that would not fall no matter how terrible the earthquake, but the table could not support the weight. He loaned it to congress in hopes they might balance the budget with it, but seemed though the budget could be balanced, only those who were at the table would agree on it, with all other congressmen falling into their usual political grandstanding, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get all five hundred members around it at once. Finally, he decided it best to donate it to a therapist, whose clients often were able to find balance in their lives after only two sessions. 

- Originally mailed to W. Murphree of Rosenburg, Texas

Cat Infestation II: Bathroom Cat

“There's a cat in the tub!” Lisa cried. “Janet, get rid of it!”

“You're a big girl, Lisa. You can get rid of it yourself,” called Janet from the living room.

Since they moved into the house a week ago, Lisa had been struggling to deal with the cat infestation they didn't discover until after they'd signed the mortgage. The exterminator was no help, saying there was nothing to be done about cats unless the cats themselves wanted a thing do. The best advice he could give was to carry a spray bottle and keep anything small enough to bat around locked away.

She eased toward the faucet, hoping to get to the shower to spray it before it... did whatever cats did. Sat there some more, she supposed. A quick blast of cold from the nozzle was enough to chase away the furry pest, but she knew he would be back. Cats always came back. They were always there just out of sight, waiting to pounce, or to knock things off of shelves, or to sit on computers or books or freshly laundered white shirts, or to dart around the place for no good reason, nearly knocking a person over as they did.

No, there was nothing worse than a cat infestation. For the tenth time that day, Lisa muttered under her breath, “Why couldn't it have been termites?”

- Originally mailed to D. Murphey from Ocean Springs, Mississippi

The Lamp

“But you have to shine,” the other poles told her.

“I don't want to,” she said in a defiant pout.

“But it's who you are! It's your purpose in life to be a guiding light!”

“Don't assume you know what my purpose is,” the darkened lamp pole said. “My mother told me never to give in to peer pressure.”

“This isn't peer pressure,” said a pole to her left. “It's common sense! Why else would you have a light bulb?”

“Because glass looks good on me.” She thought to turn to leave, but decided she had more to say. “And another thing. Why should having a bulb mean I'm meant to be a lamp? You're tall. Why aren't you a basketball player?”

“Because I'm a lamp!”

But she would have none of it. She wouldn't listen to the naysayers who would pigeonhole her and force her to be something she wasn't.

- Originally mailed to M. Navoy of Picayune, Mississippi

The Talking Watermelon

News outlets the world over covered the giant talking watermelon story. Who wouldn't be excited, after all? It had sensationalism. Man grows ten ton watermelon! It had human interest. Giant watermelon grown by unemployed man with a dream! And of course, dear heavens, a talking watermelon!

People flocked from all over the world to speak with the sentient melon. For months, the small town of Iloosa, Pennsylvania found tiself overrun with tourists, filling their hotels, eating in their restaurants, buying their “I Had A Conversation With A Watermelon” commemorative sourviner t-shirt and travel mug.

Thanks to the power of the internet and video sharing, soon people realized that as awesome as the idea of a talking watermelon is, that's how unawesome a talking watermelon actually was. Turned out, watermelons were boring and only wanted to talk about rain and soil and sun.

- Originally mailed to M. Worthington of Crystal River, Florida

Sorta Giant Robots

The Venusian invaders hoped to conquer Earth, but their politicians utterly slashed their space exploration budget. Only two probes were launched in the entirity of their preplanning for the invasion, and even those were impact probes and single shot landers. By remarkable coincidence, both probes landed at mini-golf courses, and with the grainy low res images that came back, they assumed that Earthlings were tiny, no taller than six inches, based on the size of the doors on the windmills that seemed to proliferate the planet's surface (also an indicator of low technological advancement).

They built giant robots twenty feet tall, which they were certain would be utterly unstoppable to these renaissance era liliputians. After months in transit, the killer robots finally landed on the earth at their target landing sites. They climbed from the metal capsules and began to spread total havok across the tiny villages they encountered, at least until the first humans showed up. Sure, the giants were still taller than them, but it only took three of them to topple the mechanical monstrosities and their inch thick armor, a scale foot thick to the their anticipated tiny enemies, turned out to be only mildy inconvenient when punched by the armor piercing rounds of a taller populace.

In the end, the robots were content to trash three mini-golf courses before returning home, the Venusians refusing to call the mission a total wash.

- Originally mailed to J. Lawrence of Roseland, New South Wales, Australia

The Dull Corner

It was a perfectly ordinary corner, nothing exceptional about it at all. There was no carpet, but then, most floors had no carpet. There were stains, but these were ordinary, run of the mill stains and nothing to write home about. The paint was uninspiring, the edgework decent, but not breath-taking. As such, when the photo of this particular corner began to circulate at the Thousand Words Society, a collection of writers who firmly believed that a thousand quality words could be written about any picture, the gathering of authors could not stop talking about it. The picture was bland, lacking any fuel for the imagination. Only the greatest writers could create a thousand compelling words about this image, if anyone could at all.

The conclave gathered in the main hall, and a great table was placed on the stage. Overhead, someone projected the image on a large screen, glowing twenty feet across. The group put it to a vote and selected the ten most worthy, creative writers among them, called them to the stage and gave them sheafs of paper and handfuls of pens and pencils. Nine of them struggled, sweat beading on their brow, more from strain than the bright lights. They wrote and rewrote, scribbled and crumbled, and scribbled again. One, however, wrote with ease, pausing only occasionally to look around. His story seemed to be writing itself. When he finished, he read it aloud for all to hear.

“The photo was of the most mundane corner ever beheld,” he began.

- Originally mailed to C. Donnell from Stafford, Texas

The Baby Blue Bouncer

They called him the Baby-Blue Bouncer, but not for the reason most suspected. Many assumed the name came from the tie, but the tie came later. It was a symptom of the name, but not the cause. No, they called him the Baby-Blue Bouncer because of how seriously he took his job. “You'll never get nowhere in this business if you can't abide by the host's rules.”

It was a baby shower for a premature baby. The mother had hoped it would happen before her little Stuart came, but Mother Nature never cared much for schedules, and the young boy came in month seven, a full month before the baby shower. Undeterred, the mother declared they would have the baby shower anyway. She'd kept the child's gender a secret, hoping to play a “Guess My Sex” game. However, to keep cheaters from gaming the system and changing their vote once they reached the party, she asked that all guests show up wearing either blue (if they thought the baby a boy) or pink (if they thought the baby a girl). She'd done a solid job keeping anyone from finding out before the party, but just to be safe, dressed the child in a green onsie with a yellow and brown giraffe on it. She wore a white sundress.

The bouncer would not let the boy in. “Sorry, ma'am,” he told the child's mother. “The kid needs to be in blue or pink. You too for that matter.”

“But it's my party,” she protested.

“Rules are rules,” he said and blocked the doorway.

She fired him, but his reputation had been made as the go-to bouncer.

- Originally mailed to H. Witten in Oxford, Mississippi

Cat Infestation I: Cabinet Cats

Lisa and Janet Hodgkins of Palmyra, New York thought they'd found a real deal when they picked up a two thousand square foot, four bedroom, two bath home with sunroom, covered patio, and storage shed for under sixty grand. As they were moving in, however, Lisa noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Something small and black that darted away quickly. At Janet's insistence, they called pest control, who broke the bad news.

“I don't know how to tell you this, ma'am,” he sad as he stared down at his feet. “I'm afraid you have a cat infestation. Probably the worst case I've seen. They're in the cabinets, behind the couch, under the tables and chairs and beds. Everywhere.”

“Are you sure?” Lisa asked, embarrassed. “Maybe it's not cats. Maybe it's just roaches. Maybe it's an old infestation. Maybe they're gone.”

“Sorry,” he said and pointed a flashlight at a bit of string in the back of a cupboard. “That there is fresh yarn. Not even frayed at the ends. No, you've got cats here and now.”

“Isn't there something we can do about it?” they asked. This was meant to be their dream home after all.

“I'm afraid not,” said the man. “I could spray, and that'll chase 'em off for a minute or two, but they'll just come right back. No, about the only thing to do about a cat infestation is to act like you want them around. It's the only way to get them to leave you alone.”

The devastated women cried into each others shoulders as the exterminator packed his things.

Poor girls, thought the exterminator.

- Originally mailed to A. Perkins of New Orleans, Louisiana

Ghostbusting on a Budget

When the economy collapsed, the Ghostbusters found they could no longer afford the “lavish” working conditions they'd grown accustomed to. As it turned out, the storage vault required staggering amounts of electricity to maintain, the proton packs and traps required expensive charges and maintenance after every half hour of actual use, and the city of New York no longer allowed nuclear accelerators to go unlicensed, which itself cost tens of thousands of dollars per year per accelerator “to discourage untrained amateurs.” Insurance premiums were astronomical. Ecto needed new struts twice a year due to the added weight of the portable storage unit and trap recharger. Plus there was the fact that all of these expenses paled in comparison to the cost of renting a corner location three story firehouse in central New York City.

Facing a seemingly endless stream of expenses, the Ghostbusters were forced to cut back and go low tech. In the current economic climate, their primary method of ghost busting had reverted more and more until finally they were left with putting a card board box on a table and asking the offending ghost very nicely if he wouldn't mind sitting in it for a while.

- Originally mailed to C. Merritt from Juneau, Alaska

Living in 3D

Steve Vanderbrook's first viewing of a 3d movie changed his life. “The movie looks real!” he said to his parents. For the rest of the day, he refused to remove his glasses. His parents tried to explain to him that the real world looked real too, especially if he took of his glasses so it wouldn't have that awkward red/blue flicker as the right and left eyes struggled to make what each saw work. Steve wouldn't hear of it.

He was a kid in the 80s, so it was the cool thing to do. In high school, it was his thing, and because he had a personal style and swagger that existed without the glasses, people accepted it, and some even imitated it. In college, they thought he was being ironic, and it worked for him there as well. They only time it ever was an issue was at work, but as he did IT and did it well, the office was inclined to forgive his eccentricity. When asked why, he would give the same answer, and people would assume it was a metaphor that embodied a personal philosophy rather than an actual literal belief.

“Life is better in 3D,” he would say. “It looks like everything is really there.”

- Originally mailed to P. Mathis from Hattiesburg, Mississippi

Leia's Only Hope

It never failed. Every time they went on a trip together, Obi-Wan Kenobi would always tell Leia, “Remember to study the itinerary. It has all the important information. Hotel name, room number, where we're going and when. If you get lost, it will help you.”

“I'm not going to forget where we're staying, Ben,” she would say. “Besides, if I do, R2 has the plans. I'll just ask him.”

He thought to argue with her, but knew how she could be when someone told her no. She was a princess after all.

Naturally, after checking in and after Ben had left to find a good bar, Leia promptly forgot where they were staying. She couldn't even call Ben because she'd never learned his number, trusting her cell phone to remember for her. She tried asking R2 for help, but he didn't care for her much. She didn't give him oil baths or call him “Little Friend” the way Ben did, and she never made any attempt to learn his language, making their conversations one-sided at best, and usually just a series of commands from her to him with little regard to his feelings. So he didn't tell her. He just cursed in beeps and whistles knowing she wouldn't understand him anyway. Not knowing how else to find the way back to the hotel, she had R2-D2 do what he always did. Find Ben and deliver a message.

When the little droid found him, he was sitting in a seedy bar nursing some Corellian booze. That's when R2 played the eight words the retired jedi had come to dread every time he took a vacation.

“Help me Obi-wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.”

- Originally mailed to R. Morris of Cambridge, Ontario, Canada

Iron Intervention

After a particularly bad drinking binge, the board of Stark Industries decided it could no longer subsidize Tony's downward spiral and they froze his assets. Even the Avengers assembled to hold an intervention for him, saying though they respected him as a hero and a friend, they could no longer stand idly by as he drank himself to death. 

“YOU ARE OFF THE TEAM, MORTAL!” boomed Thor, who due to his whole being a god of thunder thing had no choice but to speak in all caps. It came off much more critical than he intended, and Tony took it poorly. Bruce made a crack about anger issues, and it was up to Steve to settle the situation.

“For now,” he said, placating the cast off billionaire tech mogul. “Just until you can get yourself cleaned up. I mean, the laws don't let people drive a car when they're drunk. It's morally and legally questionable for us to let you operating a flying tank suit under the influence.”

Tony tried to argue, but it was all true. He broke down, apologized, confessed to all the times he'd secretly been drunk on the job, confessed to the vodka dispenser he'd installed, and to all the times Jarvis had to be a Designated Hero for him. Then he left.

Tony checked into a halfway house, but having no Stark money to pay for it, was forced to moonlight as a security guard in a gift shop in lower Manhattan to pay for his stay at the center. It felt belittling at first, wielding billion dollar anti-aircraft technology to protect souvenir mugs, but it reminded him what he was working toward. It made him strive for greatness the clean way. He needed that.

- Originally mailed to B. Nowell of Newport News, Virginia

The Pint and Keg

As far as dive bars went, The Pint and Keg was classy. They still had the usual things that most bars had, live music, a wide beer selection, ladies night, and the occasional drunken individual having too much and behaving foolishly. Even so, all of these things just seemed nicer there. Their live music was often authentic folk music from countries all over the world, such as when Mohinder Ayer came and sang some songs from the Punjab that his mother sang to him growing up, mixed in with a few contemporary favorites of the region. Their drink selection dominated a wall with so many taps from so many places one felt like they needed a passport just to view the beer menu, and nary a Bud or a Miller or a Michelob could be counted among them. Their ladies night was patroned by actual ladies, such as Dame Judi Dench. Even when their patrons had a little too much and got a little disorderly, it was often in the form of drinking songs and amusingly tall tales bellowed out using outside voices. Even when they did get particularly wild and climbed up on the table to dance, it was always something classic and traditional, and could be counted on to display no small amount of talent and training.

- Originally mailed to M. Hayes of Tampa, Florida

Found

They tracked her all over the world from Kiev to the Carolinas after that scam in Scandanavia, and the forged checks she passed in Czechoslovakia. She was the world's most highly sought criminal, and each day at least three Acme Detective Agency agents practically pulled their hair out trying to puzzle out the taunting clues the sticky-fingered filcher would send then, flaunting their inability to catch her. The would trace her phone calls through as many as eight countries in sixty seconds trying to get a lock on her location, but always the double-dealing diva would get away. Clues always indicated she might be in some exotic location. Paris. Mount Everest. The Rock of Gibraltar. And why not? She was a savvy, worldly, high class hoodlum. She stole diamonds and landmarks. She lived a wild high profile life, so naturally, she would want to keep around the best. Only one agent dared to say she was too smart for that, that the clues were deliberate red herrings. After all, a woman clever enough to steal a vowel from the Spanish alphabet was too smart to spend her days carousing post-heist in Monte Carlo or Venice. No, a high profile crook had to lay low if she wanted to avoid capture. While the rest of ACME chased her from Sydney to Rio following the clues the careful criminal left, one followed the money, the hotel bills, the cellphone records, the surveillance footage. As a result, only one agent was able to answer the decades old question. Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego? The Ninth Street Howard Johnsons.

- Originally mailed to J. Raper in Batesville, Arkansas

Alien Accountant

The xenomorph had hatched from Wallace Carmichael's chest and hoped to wreak bloody havok on the Burmingham Hilton. A national accountants convention had settled in, and that meant ample opportunity to feed to its acidic heart's content. There was just one problem.

“Sorry,” said hotel security. “No one but convention attendees allowed on the convention floor.”

The alien hissed, outstretched its inner mouth, snapped its tiny fangs, and dripped acid onto the carpet, which sizzled and steamed. Security responded by pointing to a sign stating convention policy and issuing the alien a bill for the carpet.

“Look pal, it's simple. No badge, no admittance.”

The xenomorph skulked off to the registration table, paid the sixty dollar fee, collected its two buffet and drink vouchers, a program guide, and hung its badge around its neck, figuring holding it would take hands away from the vital business of maiming.

As he walked through the main concourse, looking for someplace to start, a panel on new tax laws caught his eye. Obviously he didn't want to be caught unprepared come April, so he sat in. Then he checked his program and selected a few other panels that maybe he might want to attend, and he certainly couldn't miss the mixer that night, and how long does a bloodbath take, really? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Surely no more than an hour. It could wait. By the end of the week, he had killed no one, but had become a CPA.

- Originally mailed to S. Johnson of LaFayetteville, Indiana