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February 5, 2007


The word of the day is garden

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David: Mary, Mary

Everyone agreed that old Mrs. Robbins had the best garden around. She was out there every day, tending to her plants, weeding, mulching, all the esoteric little tasks that made her garden grow. She said an afternoon’s honest labor was her way of coping with the stresses of the world.

She’d started it years ago, just before her husband disappeared. Times were rough for a while, with the loneliness and uncertainty. She said her garden work let her feel like he had never left, like he was right there in the dirt with her.

She always had the reddest roses.

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Jeff R.: The Gardens of the Last City

The city's gardens were always important, as much as the fishermen's docks, but when the last outfort fell and the farms beyond sight-distance of the Brothers became unsafe, their tenants fleeing, becoming even more mouths to feed, the gardens became all-important.

Where there is importance, there is money, money to build the water towers, aqueducts and screw-pumps, money to pay the tenders of the vast fields on the rooftops and walls of the city. And where there is money, there is graft: Alderman Johaness and cronies learned to extract wealth from the garden budget with a brazen deftness hithertofore unseen.

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Ted: Status Quo

The potatoes had eyes. They saw, but did nothing.

The corn heard all, but couldn't spread the word.

The sprouts reared their heads, but no one else understood Belgian.

The cantaloupe turned meloncholy, the sunflowers hung their heads in shame, and the pumpkins sat fat dreaming only of Halloween.

Not one was able to save the little baby carrots from their doom.

But the bunnies. Oh, the bunnies.

The mercenary heart of a bunny is stone hard. With razor teeth, they stole into the farmhouse and avenged the babies.

And didn't feel the least bit guilty about accepting their pay.

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Stacy: Zen is a Relative Thing


God, I wish the screaming in my head would stop. They’re only quiet when there’s blood.


Sixty-eight and counting. Tonight it will be sixty-nine.


Someone special this time. Someone young.


The newly moved-in neighbors have a boy, don’t they? About twelve or so.


Yes, he’d be well worth the risk. So much power at that age.


Oopsie, a dark pebble. Can’t have that in here.


Need grab some new scalpel blades from the infirmary.


And some candy…Skittles, maybe. Or Nerds.


Shut up, SHUTUP!! I’m doing it, ok, just shut up!


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