|Nothing in particular.|
Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of ChristmasNietzsche eyed the gaudy Christmas decorations. The pressure of providing all the people he knew with gifts weighed heavily and he once more wondered what the point of it all was.Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of Christmas by Vocable
Around him were people like him, shopping for Christmas gifts to show the people they knew they cared about them. But unlike him, they were constantly in motion, shoving against each other, searching and purchasing. The shopping mall was filled and Nietzsche felt he was the only one not caught in the fervor of Christmas.
He stepped outside to the parking lot to properly monologue.
"What is the point?" Nietzsche wondered to himself out loud. "What is the meaning of all this? Surely, Christmas is more than about its presents?"
"You're right," a voice behind Nietzsche said.
Nietzsche whirled around in surprise. "Jesus Christ!"
"That's right," Jesus Christ said, wearing a resplendent white robe. "Christmas is more than presents. Look at the word 'Christmas'. It has 'Christ' in it. Christmas is about me."
Thus Spake NietzscheWhen Nietzsche was fifty-five years old, he died and went into the afterlife where he was filed into the Literary Realm. There he enjoyed his contemplations and spent time outside of time in the profound ecstasy of his own mind. But at last, someone stumbled upon him in his thoughts, and he went before the stranger, knew him despite not knowing him, and spoke to him thus:Thus Spake Nietzsche by Vocable
You, Hunter S. Thompson! You have wrapped truth with your gaudy own! You make it new for yourself. Would you have wearied of truth if not for the loud finery you veil it in.
Behold. One must have tasted iron to take solace in the outrageous, but one must be hard to take solace in iron. You can be made harder still!
Much of your words remain but pale imitations, a shallow mask of Truth's profound spirit! Cast off your fear! Loudness is dangerous when one becomes incapable of saying subtle things.
What is truth? Truth — that is: continually peeling away that which covers up the barest essence; Truth — that i
Slaughter SaloonThe saloon doors opened and the new sheriff walked through. Nobody quieted down because nobody was there. Nobody except Tony.Slaughter Saloon by Vocable
"We're closed, sheriff," Tony said, swiping a dirty rag over a table. "We always close at sundown. Unless you've got business with me, we've got no business at all."
"Yeah, I got business with you," Sheriff Sam said. The doors swung closed behind him, blocking the light of the setting sun. "Need your help. Three guys came here earlier today. Remember 'em?"
"I dunno, sheriff. Lots of people come here. Can't expect me to remember them all."
"Yeah, well, you'll remember these guys. Real mean types. Troublemakers. New in town so you wouldn't have seen them before."
Tony remembered them, real cocky upstarts who were itching for a fight. It was rare for someone to make trouble in Tony's saloon, with it being so close to the sheriff's office. They tested his patience, made his hands itch for the guns he kept hidden beneath the counter.
"Yeah, I remember them. What abou
The CordContentsThe Cord by wwhale
I. "Tomato Stew"
II. "conversation with the neighbour"
III. "Man in No.3"
V. "On the Road (part one)"
VI. "On the Road (part two)"
VII. "On the Road (part three)"
VIII. "untitled document"
IX. "Motel Room"
X. "Hospital again (insecticide)"
XI. "The Separation"
XII. "Before the Law (timber wolf)"
XIII. "conversation with the mother"
XIV. "another document"
I. Tomato Stew
she's crying away in that little room of hers, what does she want now? leave the
wooden spoon resting on the pot bubbling away limping down the corridor the
screaming grows from a muffle into hi-fi eardrum perforation. she looks helpless
in her confines but I know the stew is going to overflow. tomato stew ambles beyond
lipped edges, rush to the stove turn down the heat, bubbles exhumed with a hiss
leaving chaos on the floor ceiling table drawers cutlery statue chairs and the sink.
but she won't stop the antichrist screaming, i'm late for work and the flo
Getting Published the Hard WayGETTING PUBLISHED: THE TRADITIONAL WAYGetting Published the Hard Way by msklystron
A tutorial by M. Alice Chown
If, like me, you have stories lying around gathering virtual dust on your hard drive, why not send them out to a publisher? You have nothing to lose. A couple of years ago, I attended the launch of an annual Canadian short story anthology, called Tesseracts 10. I knew one of the authors whose speculative fiction piece had been included in the book. Matthew Johnson and I had taken the same creative writing course. Our former prof, author, Robert Sawyer, was there at the launch too, as well as the editors of the anthology. Those who had contributed a story to Tesseracts 10 took turns saying a few words about their piece. Matt talked about his joy at learning that after so many rejections his humble tale about soup of all things had made it into print. Most surprising to me, however, were the words of the pretty, brunette author. She was just 19, a University of Toronto student, and her short story had been her very first
The Dolomite Man 1.The Dolomite Man by catching
You are openhanded. Of course you are openhanded.
Yours is a more civilized hand than Gods,
a softer hand, a slower hand.
And your mouth discloses the first great secret of the world.
I cannot hear it. It
is a secret for your mistresses and your four wives,
and for your mistresses and your four wives only.
The child will learn it on his own. You may edify him
this way, you may make a lesson out of it
though I will learn close to nothing.
Perhaps how to make my expressions less vacuous,
my hands softer and more civilized,
my tongue-pallet the purer.
Hand me that Madeira and I will tell you
RUBBER TIRES FOR TANNIN! How perfectly
the aftertaste traipses its tails and trains along behind it,
thick, yes, but gone in the creases.
God watches from the library room, envious
and with locusts.
You sat once,