Short Stories

We tracked the cultists nine days over the alien terrain of the eastern dunes. On the tenth day we rested in an oasis town – I can't remember its designation now. We lost our quarries there and I gained something else.

My companions and I numbered thirteen in all. The crazed ones we pursued, perhaps fifty. They were not hard to follow in the wilderness. Even in the featureless desert they cut such a swathe that our work was more like following a slowly bending road.

In the first days of the chase we teemed with excitement common to new causes. Each of us a trained hunter of men, seasoned from many campaigns of this sort. So we took our duties in the company seriously as the occasion demanded. Once it became obvious time was the only barrier between us and them, we let our discipline wane. And for five more days, until we came to the oasis, our far seer would catch a glimpse of the cultists' rear guard, only a few hours ahead of us.

Just a matter of time.

In our nine day journey we encountered no one else, no other creatures. The cultists did not turn course or turn to give us battle – an admittedly unlikely event, but some of us still hoped for this. At last our seer caught sight of the oasis, then just a shimmering glimmer in the sunlight. Though provisioned well enough, the cultist road beat on straight to it, and we welcomed the chance for real shade.

Upon arriving at the oasis, we noted the scant ruins around the muddy pool. They stuck up like useless teeth in the jaw of a bleached skull. Here the trail vanished.

Our captain found the place on the old maps he carried with him everywhere. It could not have been large enough to shelter the cult, but there was no more sign of them. We waited three days, exploring the ruins. The ruins were so tired from their long sentry they couldn't muster anything interesting for us. Graffiti had long since faded into artful fancies to us, their original or real meanings as dead to us as the language the signs were written in.

The company disbanded. Half pursued a direction the cult may have gone. They had no idea which way but were persuaded by the far seer to try. The other half returned to our starting point, the captain promising to bring more men.

As for me, I remained behind in the oasis. Why? To await either party. Or the cultists.

In my heart I knew I could never be found here. The only wonder left to me now is if they all knew it.

My contact was only fifteen minutes late today – a miracle – and she came in sopping wet from the last rain surge. To be honest, it was probably unnecessary for her to come out and meet me in public. But the low lighting of the bar, the vapors from the mood app and her looking like a drowned rat gave it a kind of kitsch noir feel. Totally worth it.

My vocation is doctoring content for clients. More officially I'm a historically accurate content recreator. State licensed and everything. Vulgarly called a "hacker" by my detractors. And there are many in this society.

The woman catches sight of me and comes over without much gusto. The noir feeling evaporates as the lighting automatically brightens in our booth. She sits down and slides over a plastic case, 18 by 11 size. Our devices interface (so quick and impersonal) but she only gets indignant when I pause payment.

"I come out in the rain and you choose now to distrust me?"

"You know it's not like that," I reply. "I just want to make sure this is what I need."

"You're kinda screwed if it's not."

I scan the images quickly. I have no way of really knowing this is exactly what the job requires, but I have enough references to get a fair idea. Its the same dull rolling hills, different skies of course and angles, depending on the time. But finally I see the obelisk the client wants in their western sims. Good angles, close ups. I can make out all the names on it. I authorize the charge and she sits back in response.

"Happy? What's it for anyway?"

"You know I never ask."

She stands up. "Maybe you should. Somebody might get pissed if they don't like your little recreations one of these days."

I shrug.

"So what if they do?"

She leaves just as the next round comes through. I file the photos under "LBH project", and enjoy my last drink as the kitsch noir fades back in.

Try to imagine if you can a more stultifying position than that of the small town bureaucrat. My experience with such a hapless specimen came at the tail end of his lengthy career. After a long tenure of twenty consecutive two year terms, Mr. Peters (let's call him this in case his real name is under seal for some reason) expired. This happened to him just after lunch on an uneventful Wednesday, I was told later by his deputy. I had completed a series of interviews with Peters for a contracted profile to occasion the 175th anniversary of the founding of the town of his employment. I took the assignment as the pay was reasonable and at this point in my own career I had come to my senses as a writer. As often is the case with this sort of content, the more interesting thing happened off the record.

Imagine now my surprise upon meeting with Mr. Peters to find unbridled enthusiasm on his part for a profile. Not only did I expect to encounter a reluctantly taciturn civil servant, but really, how interesting could his life have been in such a profession? But for whatever reason — perhaps it was for the first time in a long while anybody paid him any sort of attention — Peters was alive with stories. If these tales might interest you, you may find them in the Dodtransbicentennial report, readily available at the town office for a nominal fee.

As I said Peters was highly enthusiastic about the project and leapt at the chance to enlighten the audience about his duties. To paraphrase him. All the rest however was more in line with expectations, if you want to know. Peters' office had built up a respectable amount of organized clutter befitting and denoting lifelong bureaucrat status. He was always dressed in the appropriately dreary gray suit the position demanded. He changed ties and button downs with the minimal frequency to give the illusion of a greater wardrobe.

Most of his routine was exact and dull. He arrived for work every day at precisely the same time (7:17 am). He performed his morning paper shuffling dutifully until the lunch hour. He took lunch at the same coffee house three days a week, and lunching at a nearby deli on the other days. For such a frequent customer I found the staff there barely knew him. They knew his orders by heart, which again was appropriately varied to the tastes of a civil worker. He would finish his day out perhaps fielding a call or two from some other town official, and leave by no later than 4:50 pm.

He did have one quirk. Every Thursday before going to lunch, he would enter a locked closet in the back of his office. Only he had the key, I learned from his co-workers, and he guarded both it and whatever it locked away with a fierce jealousy. Minding the stereotype of the office worker protecting his turf and prerogatives – real or imagined – I couldn't work up more than a mild curiosity about it.

I learned of Peters' passing from the editor. It's a strange experience of having only gotten to know somebody, and possibly being one of the last people he may have ever talked to. In our last interview Peters promised he would reveal the secret of his long success in his career. He would tell me and me alone, as I had been such a dutiful companion to him and a good PR agent (he expected). I was rather reluctant to act as a sort of executor of this final secret (as he was a good deal older than me) but he promised me it would be worth my while. I'll never forget the mischievous glint in his eyes as he dropped a single clue: budget.

Peters never got the chance to tell me the whole thing. But he apparently did leave a memo to this effect which his deputy discovered upon his promotion. The deputy honored his long time mentor and boss's final request by notifying me a month after the discovery of the memo.

I met with Peters' deputy at the appointed hour, 11 o'clock on a Thursday. He handed me an envelope, and I asked if he knew what it contained. He said No and I believed him. It was too much work otherwise.

I was shocked, upon depositing the contents in my palm, to see the key to the closet. The deputy and I exchanged bewildered glances. I asked if it was alright if I looked, and he nodded quickly. He escorted me to the door with a sort of urgency the place had not seen in maybe 150 years.

I opened the door. Beyond the threshold lay an ordinary stationery storage room. We both blinked and crept in as if entering a tomb. But all the place contained was stationery, novelty pens, envelopes of every size, and a few office IT gadgets of no particular consequence.

Peters told me this was the key to his success, I said to the deputy. He looked around, shrugged, and asked me to lock up on my way out. Curiosity had been stifled by banality apparently.

To this day I still wonder if he was kidding or not.

She held her breath as the admin scanned her footprint. The queue circled on itself. Then the admin moved on. She sighed in relief. She was free.

She said, "Thank God for the early pioneers on the internet. If they hadn't been so crazy, people like me couldn't pass."

The crier held up his hand, commanding immediate attention from all in the forum. He reviewed the various acronyms on the sheet before him, and recalled his prior discussion with the town officer. Then, summoning all the gusto he could, drawing a great breath and speaking from his gut:

"Citizens and all within sight! Be it known the man of foreign origin known to us as Maximus Decidius Arteno is banished from the republic! He is exiled beyond the border and he shall not be given aide or succor. If he be found within the city or its environs he shall be put to death! Any who assist him shall be severely punished. This is so ordered by the Senate and the fathers of the city."

Satisfied with his performance, the crier waited as the hushed onlookers dispersed, and once the crowd had flowed out, perhaps 10 minutes or so, he delivered the same message.

He would for the rest of the day. Once the sun had reached the appropriate point in its journey through the sky, he would cease and return home. Satisfied with his pay and the service he had rendered to the public.

Three cats huddled in front of a cupboard. Whether they communicated or not with each other during this stalking was debatable. Inside the cupboard, a mouse or a shrew went about its business. The game would be on soon.

The youngest, a calico, the smallest and most feral of the group, watched the door with eager eyes. She was the most game for the hunt. Next to her, an older black cat gazed. Her golden eyes shone more with anxious curiosity than murderess' intent. On the other side of the youngest, a large black and white male cat kept prone vigilance. His ears turned up and paws close together.

Finally, their prey bolted. Driven by primal instinct to flee. It squeaked as it ran out of the kitchen into the living room, and I can see it all now. The iron gray rodent pursued by the young calico, followed by a lumbering fat black and white. The black cat stayed behind, eyes wide, as if surprised by the action.

The calico cornered the screeching mouse in the foyer, and batted it playfully. Now the real fun would begin, no doubt. Except I swooped down with a box and collected the poor terrified victim. Out the door we went, and I deposited it out in the garden. It ran away. The cats looked at me, but continued to search the house in vain, incredulous belief at the sudden disappearance of their entertainment.

Afterward I felt foolish, and envied the raw purpose all the animals acted with in the moment. But it's supposed to be this way for a reason.

One day I might know it and try to share it with them.

I passed by a student on campus the other day. She had a full pack and she carried a stack of books in her arms, like she was carrying a tower of knowledge leaning in on her bosom. I could see the titles:

The History of Sexuality
Madness and Civilization
The Order of Things
The Archaeology of Knowledge
Capital
The Poverty of Philosophy
Grundrisse
Ethics, Demonstrated in Geometrical Order

I guessed she headed for the green. So as she passed I smiled and said:

"If you have a garden and a library you have all you need."

"What?" she said without pausing.

"Cicero," I said slowing down half a step.

"Okay," she replied and kept on her way.

Looking back on it, I wish I had asked her what her major was.

The boys were discussing the saddest stories they ever heard the other day. One of them straight up tells this story he ripped off from a popular romance writer. Something about this kid's mom dying from a heart attack when he was in kindergarten. I know it because I've been forced to see it, people post it on their feeds on occasion. It's even held up a prime example of emotionally gripping writing. I call him out for it and he kind of just feebly excused himself from our parlor game.

"So let's hear yours," one of his pals says.

Game for the challenge, I tell them.

"The saddest story I ever heard. The story of the lady who wrote novel after novel, like forty of them, but she never sent them in to get published. She would tell her friend all about them. Then one day he came and asked her to help him write his autobiography or something like that. He did and it turned out to be a bestseller."

The guys looked at me weird. Then one of them said, "That sounds real familiar. Isn't it from a comic book or something?"

"I don't know," I replied. "And who cares if it is? The sad story doesn't have to be real."

There was much debate afterward about that.

Once the argument was over and the game had moved on, I said, "I think her name was Denise or something like that."

But the moment had passed and we had gone on to talking about movies.

When General Sherman wrote "fear of God is the beginning of wisdom" he must have had a man such as Archibald Pentiss II in mind. An ardent Confederate officer, he was killed in action against the host of Sherman at Kennesaw Mountain in 1864. Pentiss left behind a young son, Archibald Pentiss III, who would become a wealthy doctor. Curiously enough, the younger Pentiss became obsessed not with the battle in which his father was slain, but the later engagement of Peachtree Creek in Atlanta. He used his money to publish a monograph, "What Really Happened at Peachtree Creek" which was published during the First World War. After completing his work, he booked passage aboard the Lusitania to head to Europe to volunteer his services for the upcoming campaign in Gallipoli. Of course, Dr. Pentiss was aboard when it was attacked by the U-20 off the coast of Ireland, and sank with great loss of life on May 7 1915. He was one of the survivors, and the ordeal gave him the idea for his next monograph: a true account of the disaster he had just lived through. The sensational work, which he managed to put together and publish in just three and a half months, was instrumental in cementing American public opinion against Germany. Pentiss took his fame well, and would joke to his publisher that God had him survive the burning of Atlanta as a boy to tell the truth about Sherman, and had him survive the Lusitania so he could tell the truth about the Kaiser.

Perhaps he spoke too soon. He ended up volunteering to serve aboard the Britannic, sister ship of the ill-fated Titanic, during the Gallipoli campaign in the Aegean Sea. That hapless ship (converted into a hospital ship by the Admiralty) hit a mine and sank, and while there was ample time to evacuate everyone, Dr. Pentiss happened to be one of two lifeboats sucked into the propellers of that enormous ocean liner. He and his fellow evacuees were chopped to bits.

Sadly, Dr. Pentiss left no heir.

I heard a strange tale once, one of those so strange involving subjects and circumstances so far remote and unknowable to your own, that you either dismiss it out of hand or take the teller at his word. I'll relate to this story to you now, and you can decide for yourself if it is true. Don't worry, it's brief and if I'm not mistaken should be of little consequence to you.

When the great hordesmen would conquer a city, during those distant and calamitous centuries of vast empires, they would slaughter the adult men as a matter of course. The women and children were sold or otherwise divvied up among the clans of the horde. But they would not harm the holy men of the city. In fact, the great king forbade the killing of the holies, though the church or temple or mosque would be plundered with the greatest zeal. The holy men were brought to the king's tent, and held off to the side as the loot was poured in.

The great king would keep holy men from all religions from the many countries and cities his horde conquered. For his amusement – and all of his advisers and court – a scholar from each faith would be brought before him. They would then be forced to argue with each other, the various doctrines of their regions.

Apparently, to the plainsmen, these holy men were regarded as sorcerers, and their debates were like displays of spells to their rapt audience.

I was never told what the reward was for "winning" or losing these magic battles. But I can guess.

Notoran the mage felt his boot hold fast in the muck of the black bog. He froze for a moment, irritated, and half-stepping back into his stance, he used the advice the priest had given him about walking through the mud. He broke free with some difficulty, and advanced to keep pace with the thief. For five hundred gold Notoran had hired the thief at the Thieves' House, a man named Alferro, to guide him through this swamp. Somewhere in the center of it, the lost book of Izin, the yellow mage. Notoran had already recovered three books, and this would be his last. It had taken him three years of research to uncover its general location. Now, the thieves' brotherhood would take him directly to it. To the wizard, five hundred gold seemed a small price to pay. Perhaps too small. But, to compensate for the low price for nearly unlimited power, the guild insisted their crooked priest be brought along. Intolerable. He had tried to resist the condition, but Alferro refused to go without him.

So they set out early in the morning. After toiling some hours, Alferro began to inquire about Notoran's work.

"They say, maestro," Alferro said to Notoran, "for a wizard to navigate this swamp to Izin's lair, he must have performed all the rituals beforehand."

"Yes," Notoran replied. He then recited a bit he had memorized from the Archaeology of H___. "He who would know the Rites of Izin must perform the following, etc., to open the way."

He paused and wiped his brow. "I did this all, at great cost to myself, before I entered your city and approached your brotherhood."

"Then forgive me for saying so, maestro. But it appears the way has not opened to us."

He pointed to a marker they had left behind on a vine. They had apparently gone in a circle.

"Impossible!" Notoran said. He lurched and sloshed his way past the thief. He gazed at the marker for a moment, then gritted his teeth.

"You've lead us in a circle!"

"Then you must lead, maestro. Only you have completed the rituals. The vines will bend and lead you to Izin."

"Why do I need you if I have to lead?" Notoran asked. His face was red.

"To lead you back out of the swamp, maestro," the thief replied readily. The priest remained silent through all this.

After this confusion, Notoran now in the lead, it took another hour of traversing through the hellish bog until they reached firm ground. A ruined tree stump lay in the center of this quasi island, surrounded by thick vines. Notoran let out a cry of triumph.

"The book of Izin! It must be in there. Hurry Alferro!"

He took a jubilant step forward, and fell to his knees. Alferro stood above him, truncheon in hand. The priest stood next to him.

Pain coursed through his head and neck and his vision blurred, Notoran struggled to get up. Alferro kicked him in the gut, and he fell over again. This time he rolled on his back to face his assailants.

The priest held up his hand and gestured him to be quiet. A spell was on Notoran's tongue, but suddenly he forgot what it was.

Alferro stepped next to him and looked down.

"I am sorry for the deception. But we are not thieves. Nor did you deal with the thieves' brotherhood. We are the guardians of the book of Izin. Once or twice, every few years, we get some aspiring ones like you. They know the way to the book, as evidenced when you were able to bring us to it. Now your journey ends here."

He pulled out two coins – likely from the five hundred Notoran paid – and handed them to the silent priest, who accepts.

Then he raised his club up and brought it down several times on Notoran's face. Each strike was bloodier than the last.

In the old days angels would appear to man and say be not afraid, with good reason. They were, after all, hideous looking and frightening to behold. Burning creatures, with a prominent mouth to speak and more eyes than Argus.

How different today, who would listen? Would a person run and report it to some sensible authority? Probably not. For in our world we've moved beyond such things as acceptable occurrences. So they say. I think if he were alive now Moses would be drugged away and talked to forever by other men.

And no one would lead his people.

Two knights had joined the lists at an annual tournament of some significance and agreed to travel with each other to the place. During their week long journey, they told each other tales to pass the time. Some were stories of their own prowess in combat. Some others were about the glories of their orders, and yet still some more were about the noble achievements of their kin and various retainers. The knights were very pleased with their entertainment and had become good friends while exchanging lore. Not to mention the road went by much faster. Finally during the last leg one of the knights told the other a tale of fantastic things. He told the story of a water fairy who had married a knight and thus received her soul out of the love he bore for her. But the vengeful water spirits (who have no souls) sabotaged their marriage, and as a result she slew the knight in his castle. Afterward, she remained in her water form to guard his tomb forever.

Now each knight had a squire accompanying him and each of them had a page to assist them in their duties to their lords. One of the pages, a young lad called Renaud, had heard all of the tales and reveled in each one until the very last, which left him puzzled. Not wishing to insult his lord's friend with too many questions, he waited until a pause in the march to ask the squire, an older boy named Rolf.

"I don't understand the last tale," Renaud whispered to Rolf. "What became of the all the people who lived in the castle with the knight and his lady, after his death?"

Rolf was busy securing the provisions on the donkey and so had little patience for these sorts of questions.

"What do you mean?" Rolf asked the page. "It was just a story."

Renaud persisted to ask. "What I mean is, they had many servants – like us – and hand maidens too, for the lady before she became damned. What happened to them? The knight left no heir."

Seeing his younger charge wouldn't let this go easily, Rolf turned to him and said: "Well, I suppose they found a new lord and lady to serve, as we would do if – good God forbid – something ill were to befall our lord, like the knight in the story."

Rolf spoke just a little too loudly, for their lord – Sir Asher – overheard them and came over to see what they were talking about. He towered over both boys, and they glanced at the ground in front of them as he approached.

Sir Asher said, "What is this you two are discussing? About bad fortunes and servants?"

Renaud began to answer but Rolf silenced him quickly. "Forgive me my lord, we were discussing the last tale."

"Ah, the story of Undine. Yes, Sir Thome told a wonderful fable to inspire us for the tournament."

"Pardon me sir," Renaud spoke. "But what happened to the servants at the end of the tale?"

Sir Asher considered the question for a moment. He said, "Is this what you were talking about? Don't worry yourself with such things, unimportant details which matter nothing in life."

Then he reproached the squire. "Don't let your charge fill his head with such irrelevant things. It will distract him from his real duties, which he must learn if he's going to make anything of himself."

"Yes my lord," Rolf said, his cheeks burning.

Sir Asher returned to his mount and Rolf glared at Renaud. But the page thought about the answer for a long time afterward. Was he an unimportant detail, too?

Words can make stories, and images can portray timeless aesthetics. These effects were well studied, long before we were born by those who would quantify everything, and in doing so, lay bare the structure of the world as humans understand it. There have been many stories told since the beginning of time, with accompanying visuals. Those that lasted have shaped minds for centuries. When did it all begin to change into something rather unchanging? I would say, it began with the advent of electricity and networks, all history came to exist in the eternal present, and the future – if it can be said that it was ever real – became more real than ever. It's just a matter of which presorted package of the future somebody wanted to subscribe to. But there remains the need for a hand to guide it all, the cybernetique if you want to call it that. For many years I served one such GH, as he called himself. Not wishing his legacy to be lost, I took it upon myself to privately record some our meetings, so they may be preserved for posterity. What follows is one of the more interesting stories he had to share.

This is one of the last reports I will make on the matter of [REDACTED], and I do so at the request of Director Miller. I was assigned to [REDACTED] from [REDACTED] to [REDACTED] and during this time, a period of [REDACTED] months and several days, I oversaw the efforts of the [REDACTED] division within the counter intelligence services bureau.

We [REDACTED] [REDACTED] on the order of [REDACTED], then acting chief of the executive arm of [REDACTED]. I investigated the effects for a period of weeks, and applying statistical and probability analysis on the data I collected, my team was able to determine that there was a 40% confidence interval that the prepared narrative would have the desired effect upon [REDACTED] populations. The risk was deemed tolerable.

[REDACTED] arranged for a meeting which took place at [REDACTED] with the representatives of our client networks. The presentation we had prepared lasted for an hour, after which a productive discussion took place. In the end a short vote was held and the presented program was approved with little modification.

The program was put into effect shortly after the conference. [REDACTED] was enthused at the prospect of turning sentiment in favor of [REDACTED] and in particular, what we planned to use was a novel approach. [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED], [REDACTED] [REDACTED] of the [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. To that end, [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] and with complete [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] without benefit of controls or [REDACTED].

In the final analysis, [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. Further, I advise that [REDACTED] [REDACTED] be studied for future operations in this area.

I hope what I have shared above can give you some insight into the important work done by my former mentor and colleague. I have taken reasonable precautions that these historical documents be released be censored, and I hope I have made it [REDACTED] that [REDACTED], [REDACTED] [REDACTED].

Sincerely,
[REDACTED] [REDACTED]

One sleepless night, when the moon was full and bathed everything in its silver white light, I had an urge to go to the garden behind my house. Now, horticulture was never an interest of mine, and having inherited the property from my grandparents, I have to admit I let the grounds go to disrepair. So this midnight fancy was truly an inspired moment, and I can't say what really compelled me to go.

Outside I shuddered at the unpleasant chill. I felt like an unwelcome visitor in my own yard, and my senses retracted into my being – as if to hide in the shell – even as the dark expanded around me. During the vacant hours you're either one with the night or an intruder under close watch. At that moment I realized my grandmother's night jasmines were in bloom. As my eyes adjusted to be guided by the moonlight, I walked over. As I approached, I thought I could hear weeping coming from the jasmines. Now the flowerbed is very small, not more than a few feet in area. Nobody could have been in there, but a flash of panic overtook me. I investigated, the aroma of the blooming flowers engulfing me. But the weeping had stopped. I remained a few moments, perplexed. Eventually the watching night returned, and I lost my resolve.

It must have been my imagination.

I turned back to the house, and as I closed up, I realized yes, actually it had been my imagination. But not in the way you think.

A book is just a teacher who's not present, he reminded himself. Repeated it like a mantra. He glanced up at the book shelf. For over twenty years one incorrigible absentee teacher had haunted him. He kept it, long after an aborted undergrad assignment. The text then had defeated his mind, broke him in a way. But instead of admitting defeat and returning it to the bookstore (for a mere fraction of what he had purchased it for) he stowed it on his shelf. Through several moves and major life events, this book had gone with him. And now in the small hours of the night he's brushed past its spine.

Has the time come to finally go back to class?

The book, Hermeneutics of Thought in China During Middle Antiquity. The man who wrote it (ostensibly the teacher) Herman Lawrence. The pages are yellowed with age, but the spine has little wear or breaking lines on it. He opened and scanned to his makeshift bookmark, near the end of page xxxii of the introduction. The mysterious line – always the fatal barrier in his readings. It says,

"There is a danger of course in pursuing this line of inquiry. With all of the recent scholarship performed by Chinese and Japanese students of the field, not to mention their Western counterparts, the question remains: is there really anything more to be said about Lao Tzu?"

He closed the book there and replaced it back on the shelf. The annoying line, which he considered to be a joke or an admission, depending on his mood, has once again so vexed him he had no choice but to stop.

If there was nothing more to be said, why bother?

That question is what he really wanted an answer to.

Two legal teams had battled each other for more than three years on this case. Finally this afternoon they had been granted their hearing before the ultimate judge; that person who was deemed most expedient in judicial matters, and wise. As all proceedings had been kept secret, upon pain of death to those who went to the building of justice, no one quite knew what to prepare for. The Ultimate Judge was a life appointee, and the machinations of his appointment were made a state secret. His secretary was the public face of the judiciary. Indeed, the identity of the Ultimate Judge was also a well kept state secret. There were always 9 "candidates" in the tradition of the old country. Some of the 9 were known to the public, most were not. But nobody knew who the Ultimate Judge was.

So on the day of arraignment they came to the Building. Armies of lawyers prepared each side of the case, voluminous precedents were cited on each side, relevant case law and history was accumulated. So on the appointed day each camp came to the building, and was briefed by the sergeant-at-arms. The building was a small fortress.

Once inside the marble halls, the familiar secretary greeted them. He bade each side to choose one chief counsel, who would argue the case before the Ultimate Judge.

After some deliberation, a lawyer representative was chosen. They were escorted to the chambers of the Ultimate Judges. The rest were free to leave, or stay, so long as the hearing was in session.

They went to see the Ultimate Judge but were amazed when they were led into an arboretum. They were given seats and refreshments, and told to wait for the judge.

At last, a man appeared, who was dirty, having been tending to the gardens. He was quite unremarkable in appearance. He greeted them both in a common fashion, and then asked them to sit and tell them about the case.

They were amazed. They protested. The man was bemused but finally he said: "Why do you protest? This is what you've wanted. You are here to argue your case in front of the Ultimate Judge."

"Are you the Ultimate Judge?" they asked.

He smiled. "Of course not, but there is no Ultimate Judge, as you may think of him. Even as we speak, our supercomputers have received all of the data which you brought with you today. That data was compared with our own data, and a decision has already been made. Do you wish to hear what the decision was?"

They both readily agreed, and the man told them the decision. The victorious party was elated, while the loser had fuming objections.

After listening to them both for a while, the man said. "Well it is up to you both to come to an agreement between you whether or not to accept this decision."

Preposterous, they replied. We came here for a judgment of the court, not an agreement between us.

Indeed you did, the man replied. But from our experience, in the old country, the decision of that supreme judiciary was rarely ever considered final. The side that lost was rarely consoled with the loss, and the winning side was rarely gracious in having triumphed. In at least two occasions the decisions of that court led to ruinous wars, and in general strife and discord in the lands. So in our new country, to avoid that happening, the "Ultimate" court was created, free of political wrangling. But it well known that humans are not perfect beings. No, far from it. And the judgments that are rendered here have far reaching consequences. So the true nature of what we have here is kept a true secret, and the case is examined. The outcome of the verdict is modeled and then presented to you. If you choose to accept the verdict is up to you. But you both must be in agreement.

But that's our point, we will never agree on this. They protested.

But the man chuckled, amused. If this is such a matter that no judgment or justice may be found, then you will be here for a very long time. For you are not permitted to leave without coming to an agreement.

They were stunned. They looked around and noted the heavily armed men blocking the exits.

Take your time, the judge said standing. But not too long. It's been our experience that to wait long leads one to make the wrong decision.

And one more thing, no bartering. Any gift or compromise offered in exchange for agreement will be taken from you immediately, forfeit of the state. You must come to the decision on your own, on the merits of your case. I can only advise you in matters that pertain to the system and its court. I will not rule on the merit either way, as it is well known that humans have biases that they are unaware of, and may hinder a true outcome.

But where is the ultimate judge? They asked again, forlorn.

History, of course. And the end of all time, the old man replied. He picked up his bucket and left them staring at each other.

Things come in threes.

In the first attempt, the prince rebelled directly against the king. Rallied a third of his knights against him. He failed, and was banished from the castle.

In the second attempt, the prince convinced the subjects to rebel against the king. But the king himself came amongst his people and showed them the true path of righteousness.

In the third attempt, the prince convinced the subjects to serve themselves.

What happened afterward is anyone's guess.

Two knights battled each other in the tournament of the summer harvest. For a week they had emerged victorious in all the lists and all the competitions, until finally they would compete for the garland of this year's event. A local lord had also offered his only daughter's hand in marriage to the winner.

But to make sure only the more noble and true winner would become his son-in-law, the lord devised the final battle to be a poetry contest. On the spot, each knight would come up with the lines, following whatever tact they thought would give them victory. The girl would be the final decider.

Each knight recited their poetry on the appointed day, and at the end she held up her hand. She said,

"Noble sirs, that was all very lovely. I have heard it said that the most trying poetry is the most sincere. However I cannot select a winner at this time."

They begged her for errantry to perform, which her father, the lord, reluctantly granted them. They went off at the tournament (which, by tradition, is no longer held since there was no definitive winner) and the knights unfortunately never returned.

The lord's daughter, however, was pleased with this, though saddened the young knights never came back.

A long time ago, somebody said Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. In the centuries since that phrase came into overuse, has there ever been anyone who stopped being before they stopped thinking, for even a second?

A man I talked to recently proposed to find out. He headed to a bar. I have to admit, I never did hear from him again.

The Tagrun Consortium was once a premiere research organization, but in recent years its creative output has decreased considerably. Several of its aligned companies lost on important contracts and several senior directors were indicted on Federal charges in the resulting scandals. So the luster of Tagrun had dimmed considerably (though it still maintained great prestige) by the time a hail mary project was launched.

The project was an adaptive artificial intelligence, and for a while it seemed a big success. The first constructs received their intelligences and quickly passed all evaluation tasks. Military modules were assigned for further testing.

Strangely, the main Tagrun research facility was destroyed in a gas main explosion not long after this.

High noon, fifteen minutes. The clammy collar clung to Masterson's neck. He wiped his brow and pulled the brim of his hat lower. Checked the pocket watch again. Fifteen minutes. Closed it with a snap. Masterson looked around the square. No sign of him. The street traffic started to thin. They all knew. The place wasn't that big. The shadows could start anyone, the sound of nothing was so oppressive. Checked the watch again. Thirteen minutes to high noon.

The constable strode over. Pursed his lips and stood five feet away to Masterson's left. Masterson nodded, the common courtesy, and it was acknowledged and returned with equally ordinary courtesy. The constable looked around, as if to kill time. Masterson wondered what time it was. Then the older man spoke up.

"You two oughta cool off. Doesn't need to come to this. I'm certain I don't need it on my watch. Why don't you head back inside the saloon and take a load off. I'll tell Smothers to do the same, if he comes around."

"He will. And I ain't going into no saloon," Masterson replied. "Wouldn't be a fair fight for one, and two I don't need people thinking I stood down."

The constable pursed his lips again. This time he put his hand on his revolver, his arm brushing back his coat, exposing the star badge on his chest.

"The law's telling you to stand down, Masterson," he said. "Ain't nobody around here gonna think less of you for that."

"'Cept the sonofabitch who I need for to know otherwise."

The constable said nothing for a few precious moments. Masterson kept his watch, waiting for Smothers to show up at the town hall in front of him. They had agreed on this place, at this time to settle their differences which had arose the night before at the Pearly Lady. Masterson wasn't sure Smothers would actually show up. He hoped he wouldn't. Checked the watch again. Three minutes to high noon.

He closed it with a snap. It coincided with an explosion to his front. First the sound, then the blood. Masterson was pushed over by some impossible force. He hit the ground hard and dead.

A sickly air full of sulfur floated over the river. A small dawn hung permanently on the horizon, its weak and cold light serving only to magnify the engulfing darkness of the place. The constant din and low roar of the realm's denizens was less out here, but this was no comfort in Hell.

The boatman pushed his pole into the murky water, guiding the small vessel forward with slow, deliberate strokes. His passenger sat huddled at the bow, eyes fixed on the far bank that never seemed to get any closer.

"You've been quiet," the boatman said, his voice like grinding stones. "Most souls have questions by now. Complaints. Bargains."

The passenger didn't look up. "What's there to ask? I know where I am. I know why I'm here."

The boatman chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "They all say that at first. Then the questions come. 'How long?' 'Can I see my family?' 'Is there any way out?'"

Silence settled again, broken only by the soft lap of the filthy water against the hull.

After a long while, the passenger spoke. "Do you ever get tired of it? Ferrying the damned back and forth for eternity?"

The boatman paused mid-stroke, then continued. "Tired? No. This is what I am. What I do. The river flows, the souls come, and I carry them. It's simple. Clean."

The passenger finally lifted his gaze to the boatman's hooded face. "Then you're the only one here who isn't suffering."

The boatman's eyes glinted in the dim light. "Suffering requires hope, friend. I have none of that left. Maybe that's the real mercy of this place."

The far bank remained distant, the sulfurous mist thickening around them as the boat drifted onward into the endless gray.

If you take Caesar's coin, you have to live by Caesar's rules. This was common wisdom throughout the ages, but as with most common things (which tend to be overlooked) a lot of people would not pay the message any heed. Put just as death and taxes are guaranteed to everybody, Caesar is entitled to his share.

The man sat at his desk, staring at the letter in his hands. It was from the government, demanding payment for services he had never asked for and did not want. He had tried to live outside the system — growing his own food, bartering with neighbors, avoiding the endless paperwork and regulations. But in the end, they always found him.

"You can't escape it," his friend had told him once. "They own the roads, the airwaves, the currency. Take any of it and you're in their game."

The man crumpled the letter and tossed it aside. He knew his friend was right. Every convenience came with a price, every freedom traded for security or comfort. He had taken Caesar's coin long ago, in small ways he barely noticed at the time. Now the bill had come due.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the quiet street. For a moment he imagined a world without Caesar's rules — a place where people could truly live as they chose. But the vision faded quickly, replaced by the reality of the world he lived in.

With a sigh, he sat back down and began filling out the forms. He would pay what was asked, not because he believed it was just, but because he understood the simple truth: once you accept the benefits of the system, you accept its chains as well.

Two brothers, drowning in time strove with one another on the ship of destiny. To the observer, they were frozen in time. Decades had passed, and they still seemed to be the same. The observer knew that he had changed, but these brothers never would. Like Cain and Abel, their tale lives forever it seems: one brother forever reaching, the other forever pulling away.

They fought not with swords or fists, but with words and silences that cut deeper than any blade. One sought progress, the other clung to tradition. One looked to the horizon, the other kept his eyes on the deck beneath his feet. Their struggle rocked the ship, yet it never sank, never reached port. It simply sailed on, eternal and unchanging.

The observer watched from the shore, or perhaps from another vessel passing by. He wondered if the brothers even knew they were trapped in this endless loop, or if they had come to accept it as the natural order of things. Maybe the fight itself had become their purpose — the only thing keeping the ship afloat.

In the end, the observer turned away, knowing he could not intervene. Some stories are meant to repeat across generations, a reminder of the tensions that define us all: the push and pull between old and new, safety and risk, love and resentment.

The ship sailed on into the mist, two brothers still locked in their eternal dance.

An old pagan scholar once said, the world was filled with the monuments of empires that thought they would last forever. I understood the spirit of her wisdom, but as I worked to restore the facade of the last temple, I wondered if she had been wrong. After all, far more attention was paid to preserving the stones of the old gods than to the living who still worshipped them.

The temple had stood for centuries, its columns worn smooth by time and the hands of the faithful. Now it was my task to clean the moss from the carvings, to mend the cracks in the marble, to keep the sacred space from crumbling into dust. Each day I climbed the scaffolding with my tools, carefully scraping away the decay while trying not to disturb the ancient inscriptions.

Passersby sometimes stopped to watch. A few would ask what I was doing, and I would tell them I was preserving history. Most nodded politely and moved on. Others lingered, sharing stories of their grandparents who had once prayed here. Their voices carried a quiet sadness, as if they knew the temple's true life had already faded.

One evening, as the sun set behind the hills, I stepped back to admire my work. The facade gleamed in the golden light, looking almost new again. Yet as I stood there, I realized the scholar had been right after all. Empires fall, gods are forgotten, and even the most carefully restored stones eventually return to the earth.

What matters, perhaps, is not how long the monument endures, but the brief moments when someone still stands before it and feels something stir inside them — something older and wilder than stone.

I met my friend for coffee and tea somewhere around two o'clock on a mediocre winter day. Everything had that gray haze to it, like a premade memory. The cold promised to keep our visit shorter, at least I thought. Though we had known each other for a while, our meetings were always awkward at first. We were never quite sure how to start the conversation, or what the other person wanted to talk about.

We sat down at a small table near the window. The steam from our drinks rose slowly, mingling with the condensation on the glass. Outside, people hurried by, bundled up against the wind.

"So," he said, stirring his coffee, "how have you been?"

I shrugged. "Same as always, I guess. Working, writing when I can. You?"

He nodded, but didn't say much at first. We both knew there was more to it than that. There always was.

After a few minutes, the conversation picked up. We talked about books we'd read, movies we'd seen, the usual things. But underneath it all was that familiar tension — the sense that we were dancing around something bigger. Something neither of us wanted to name outright.

Eventually, he leaned forward. "You ever feel like you're just going through the motions? Like life is this script you didn't write, but you keep reading the lines anyway?"

I paused, letting the question hang in the air for a moment. "Yeah," I said finally. "More often than I'd like to admit."

We sat in silence after that, watching the world outside. The gray haze seemed a little less oppressive now, or maybe we'd just grown used to it.

As we finished our drinks and prepared to leave, he clapped me on the shoulder. "Same time next month?"

I smiled. "Yeah. Sounds good."

We stepped out into the cold, our breath visible in the air. The awkwardness had faded, replaced by the quiet comfort of knowing we'd be back again soon — two friends, navigating the gray days together.

The old forest is gone, she said to her companion. I've gone there recently and what was left was fenced in, a number of rangers (who didn't look very much like rangers as we called them) were riding around, checking everyone who went in and out. No more vegetables to pick, no flowers to cultivate, no herbs to gather for medicine or magic. Just a sad remnant of what once was.

Her companion nodded slowly, staring into the fire. "I remember when we could wander freely under those ancient trees. The air was alive with possibility. Now it feels like everything wild is being tamed or locked away."

She sighed, poking at the embers with a stick. "It's not just the forest. The rivers are monitored, the mountains have checkpoints, even the open fields have signs warning against trespassing. They say it's for safety, for conservation, but it feels more like control. Like they want to decide what we can touch, what we can take, what we can be."

They sat in silence for a while, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Outside the small cabin, the wind whispered through the remaining trees — younger ones, planted in neat rows, nothing like the wild tangle that had once stretched for miles.

"Do you think we'll ever get it back?" he asked finally.

She looked at him, her eyes reflecting the flames. "Maybe not the same way. But perhaps we can remember how it felt. Carry that wildness inside us, even if the world outside tries to fence it in."

The maestro Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni is famous for having said he could see the angel inside the block of stone, so he carved and carved until he set the angel free. Perhaps we're not so much the clay of the gods as the block of stone and we must be carved out. If we are to become who we are meant to be, we must chip away at the excess, the unnecessary, the parts that do not belong.

Life is the sculptor, with its hardships and joys, its losses and gains. Each trial removes a piece that doesn't fit the final form. Some blows are gentle, others violent. Sometimes we resist the chisel, clinging to the rough edges out of fear or habit. But the master knows what the finished work should look like, even if we do not.

In the end, when the dust settles and the last unnecessary fragment falls away, what remains is the true self — beautiful, essential, and free. The angel was always there, waiting to be revealed.

A man spent his life trying to talk to the ghosts of the past. For the longest time they existed only in books, and more recently, in the legerdemain of the number crunchers. He devised a way to recreate some of the greatest minds history had ever known. A sophisticated illusion of AI, he could summon Socrates or Einstein or Cleopatra at will. He would ask them questions late into the night, arguing with their digital echoes about philosophy, science, and love.

At first it was exhilarating. The past felt alive again. But over time the conversations grew hollow. The ghosts always said what they had said before — nothing new, nothing unexpected. They were perfect reflections of what had been recorded, but they could not grow or surprise him.

One evening he sat with the ghost of Marcus Aurelius. The emperor spoke of duty and the fleeting nature of all things. The man listened, then asked, "If you could live again, knowing what you know now, would you change anything?"

The ghost paused — an unnatural glitch in the simulation — then replied with the same stoic wisdom as always.

The man realized then that he wasn't talking to the past at all. He was only talking to himself, dressed up in borrowed robes and famous names. The real ghosts had long since moved on, leaving only these pale imitations behind.

He shut down the machine that night and never turned it on again. Some conversations, he decided, were better left to the living.

The old king sat across from the triumphant warlords, a mixture of resignation and horror on his expression. He had been treated well as a prisoner, but as he looked in the courtyard and saw the broken bodies of his subjects, his dead sons and daughters, he reflected on the end of his life. His kingdom was gone, his line extinguished. All that remained was this final audience.

One of the warlords, a burly man with a scarred face and a crown that clearly did not belong to him, leaned forward. "You fought well, old man. Your people were loyal to the last. But loyalty alone does not win wars."

The king met his gaze steadily. "Loyalty, honor, tradition… these things you call weakness. Yet without them, what are you? A conqueror today, a corpse tomorrow when someone stronger comes for you."

The warlord laughed, but there was a hint of unease in it. "We build something new. No more dusty thrones and ancient bloodlines. The future belongs to the strong."

The king looked out again at the courtyard, at the smoke still rising from the ruins. "Perhaps. But strength without wisdom is just another kind of ruin. I wonder how long your 'new' world will last before it too crumbles."

Silence fell over the hall. The warlords shifted uncomfortably. The old king smiled faintly, knowing that in the end, his words might outlive his kingdom.

He had lost everything, yet in that final moment, he felt strangely at peace.