Menko 21: Hot-Head

“...Because they put on the best show”

Vindaloo Weekend 6: Wrath in the Ink

Peaceful Tempers at the Brink

Infotoxin peddlers and psychic vampires are in no position to dictate the sources and use of the energies of others.
  The qi-booters of today merely recycle the vibes of yesteryear, trying to pass off the labour and output of others whilst dropping a nuke on any residual value.
  The cultural half-life of their resultant exploits is pretty much an open book for the public to gaze upon -- and sadly shake their heads at. The only use their dwindling peanut gallery has for them is for last-ditch Nostalgioid Opiates.
  But don’t puncture their zeppelin unless you want a public meltdown on your hands. (Or, maybe you do want that.)
  The old brag was that Subjective Reality is a lifestyle choice.
  Objective Reality has other plans.

Pollinator Invader

Megachile sculpturalis

The Arc o’er the ’Well

A midsummer stroll during l’Heure d’Or finds a prismatic smear in the lavender sky over the ’Well.
  Could it be? Is it that time again? It must be a sign.
  Indeed, the stone ram’s head calendar of ancient Thrace says the epéteios thanátou of Little Xander is two days hence.
  Between all flesh and dust, thwart the earth and sky over the bygone millennia, the Ouranios Arc never forgets.

Tree of Life

Thuja orientalis

The Racer Stands his Ground

Coluber constrictor priapus

Sentinel Squid (augmented draft)

Stratum XXVII exercise (with augmentation) from device “Pete” for BLU Team, Creative Services Dept., Herb Nearland Pubs.
The torch of the Aerosol Faction has passed again as the squad makes the transition from Cuttlefish to Sentinel status.

Parfaits at the Buck

Ah, that tasty reward for finishing your Sunday dish at the Olde Inn, another locale at which the S’amb’r Ql’an were once known to convene.
  What could the old coach stop possibly be like today? If anything can be learned from the nearby Tudor House of bygone days, it may well be a bistro miteux of telescreens, tracksuits, and tasteless tuck.
  Why sully yesterday’s memory with the menu of today’s fribbles and their wrappy and pokey TrendFeed, along with “Amayahkitun Piskèp” sub-karaoke boomer activities? Except here you’ll find the cervids of Mesingw instead of the Tudor’s testy testudines of Unami to remind you they saw firsthand how history was flushed.
  For today, just enjoy the parfait in your mind.

The Chaste Tree and the Bee

Vitex agnus-castus

Sky Chief (augmented draft)

Stratum XXVII exercise (with augmentation) from device “Pete” for BLU Team, Creative Services Dept., Herb Nearland Pubs.
Posited counteriteration of the TAOniverse’s counterpart Tiki Prime.

Cue for the Flavours: Assortment γ

L’aneto: The special salsa concocted by Mrs Nuveti for the waning summer weekend at Lac des Cloches.

Cracker-Jack: Passenger treat on the “Pop-eye” sightseeing boat at Madeira Selváge. Dismayingly, the head drains into the sea.

Quadrados de Desayuno:
Savour the Stratum VI pre-dawn tasteless choco biscuit whilst Niño Cisco transmissions commence.

The Spirit is Alive in Woodville

   “We’re putting up lights for the Reverend -- you in?” quipped Herr Moto over the telephone.
  “Sure,” shrugged Stoddard. He wasn’t a Scrooge by any means, but then, he had nothing better to do at the time.

  The black and white Nash Metropolitan toddled along the road east out of town with Moto behind the wheel, Mr Gilley riding shotgun, and Stoddard scrunched in the “back seat” with his knees up to his chin. He didn’t mind the discomfort, though. The mild December eve pushed a fresh country breeze through the window with the sinking sun at their backs.
  A turnoff at Lexington Depot led them south by Maxey’s, and finally to the zero-traffic light community of Woodville. The sun was well behind the trees when the Nash pulled up the dirt drive to the Reverend’s ‘Bible Garden.’
  Amidst the rustic acres were painted concrete statuary, faded plywood signs with hand-lettered scripture, and the odd apostle and dromedary fashioned from papier-mache and tar paper. A veritable cornucopia of biblical folk art, to be sure, but with the sun swallowed up by the twilight, all were reduced to slouching shadows amongst the scrubby pines and brush.
  The sole light source was a dingy yellow bulb hanging from the doorway of a one-storey house set back some distance. The stooped silhouette of an older man came forth as Mr Gilley made his way to the dwelling.
  “Here.” Moto thrust a coil of Christmas lights into Stoddard’s chest. “You’re lighter and more nimble than us old men,” he said with mock encouragement.
  “Go up that one,” he pointed. Stoddard looked up. Most of the pines were languid longleaf or loblolly, but the one Moto noted was thick with a wide base. Leyland cypress or a fir, perhaps -- hard to tell in the creeping dusk. Stoddard slung the coil of lighting around his left shoulder as he found his footing on a limb about three feet up. Bit by bit he snaked between the branches clockwise up the tree, letting out the lighting foot by foot as his left arm clung the coil and torch and his right arm grasped for the next handhold.

  He was about thirty feet up when he paused for a breath. The sharp pine smell reminded him of the live-cut spruces the old man would bring home at Christmas and later plant in the backyard. Those trees have to be as tall by now as this one, he thought to himself.
  Stoddard stilled himself and turned away from the tree. There was a crisp breeze. The sun had fully set behind a horizon of more pines, waking up the stars in a moonless sky. The chirping drone of crickets below. The dull yawn of a train’s horn some miles off. He looked downward and saw the shadows of Moto, Gilley, and the Reverend talking amongst themselves.
  Stoddard secured the end of the wiring and slowly descended the tree. He emerged covered in scratches, sap, and bits of tree bark as the three men turned to him.
  “Good job,” one of them said from the darkness. A figure knelt and connected the line of lighting to a nearby extension cord.
  The big tree lit up the night. Red, gold, green, and blue twinkled through the fine needles. The glow dimly illuminated the men’s faces as they gazed upward. None said a word, but Stoddard could tell they were all smiling. The Reverend’s wife silently stood at the door with her hands clasped, taking in the sight.
  “Thank you all, and have a blessed Christmas.”

----

  The Reverend and his wife both passed away not long after. As for the Bible Garden, records say “the environment was destroyed.” Herr Moto a died of a snakebite a few years later, and now Mr Gilley has also passed. Stoddard says he tells the story not for any dubious notions of profundity or poignancy, but only because he is the last one alive to tell it.

Cue for the Visions: Oktoberfest Bicentenario

   The blaring horns are having a go. Bright bunting sways in the honeysuckle breeze. The beer is flowing as adults chatter and furley youth cavort on the green at the Altsteinhaus.
  The Maslansky brothers sidle and pitch as Malinconico and Scarlatti romple and dart, to and fro. The Sisters Horatius titter at the sight whilst Wrong-Lane Wayne slaloms around tykes underfoot. Underneath the picnic tables all the toes are tapping.
  It was the best of times; it was the wurst of times.

Desemenation Aborted Pilot, Stratum XV, Iteration 5: Rise & Shine