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July 18, 2005

Volume 3, Issue 18

A little visual splendor for your Monday morning...

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[Photo taken from this photographer's collection. You can see the rest of his photography here]

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The Eschatologist: Wish Upon A Thousand Stars

Every seven years on the summer solstice legend has it that one lucky kid will have all of his dreams come true. No joke. As the setting sun touches the horizon for the last time that day and the light washes away like water draining from a pool, you must strike a pinata. Then, and neighborhood folklore is very clear about this, it will explode just as your bat makes contact and release a thousand fireflies, which you then wish upon in turn. So they say, anyway. I've waited years for this moment, hoping maybe dad will finally come home.

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Michele: Catch a Buzz

Boy had captured several fireflies, imprisoning them in glass. He picked one, crushed the bug under his shoe and laughed. The others sadly watched the smeared glow of their comrade fade on the sidewalk.

Soon, a free Firefly came to Boy, surprising him by talking in Human.

“We have an offering for you in the backyard, if you let the others go.”

Boy, being a greedy sort, accepted.

A pinata! Following the firefly’s rules, he donned a hood before swinging wildly, thinking of spilled candy and coins.

“Do you think,” said one firefly, “that hornets is overdoing it a bit?”

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Tanya: Damage

"It's comin' at us again, captain! Brace for impact!"

The captain grabbed onto his chair, keeping his position as they were mercilessly hit again. "Why isn’t the tractor beam working?! Shuttle to main ship! Increase tractor beam!"

It was no use; they should never have landed on this planet. The natives continued to batter them, as if their destruction was some demented game. Their booster rockets had been destroyed, and the captain thought their radio was out now, too.

They could see it approaching again, and another blast would be the end of them.

"Shuttle to Galaxion! Emergency! Get us..."

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Ted: The Tiki

Everyone loves teh pinyata. Balls. Here I am, nearly empty, while this moron takes another swing. I'm older than this stupid Latin puppet full of candy. I used to be powered by whale oil for fucksake. WHALE OIL. The stuff for annointing kings! The stuff thousands would sail and hunt and die for. Mighty Queequeg himself filled my reservoir.

Here I am, guttering, because this jackass can't go buy kerosene. Shit. Spends hours straightening and checking those wires, but can't bother with a buck's worth of oil.

Come on kid, one more swing and I explode all over the fence.

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