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February 26, 2008



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General James saw the results of the battle and swore. "What's going on?" he demanded angrily, "I thought we had a truce." None of his troops had retreated; all had died in the rout that had come unsuspecting from one of his allies.

"Well," came the reply, "you should have known better than to leave yourself wide open like that. All's fair in love and war."

James grunted. "Still, I thought better of you."

"You would have done the same if it got you all of Africa. Besides," his new nemesis continued, "no truce or alliance is sacred in Risk."

Posted by: Joel at February 26, 2008 1:48 AM · Permalink

The Painting

‘The gentlemen with the painting are here.’
‘Send them away.’
‘But they’ve come a long way.’
‘Give them a cup of tea and send them away.’
‘And the painting?’
‘It’s the work of an impostor.’
‘An impostor?’
‘A fake.’
‘And the gentlemen?’
‘And the money?’
‘Mr Walters?’
‘A fool. Like me.’
‘Finally you see. I’m a fool among fools.’
‘By Mrs Walters?’
‘Don’t you see, there was no Third-Eye Vision, there is no Art of the Infinite Dream Dimensions.’
‘Lies. A lover. A planned trip. With my money. I never want to see that thing again.’

Posted by: Peter Holm-Jensen at February 26, 2008 1:57 PM · Permalink


There was the Fullness and there were the wastes where you roamed and found your first separation. You were chased by the light through the courts of symmetry and hounded through empty galaxies. When you hurtled into this air you hid in skies livid with the threat of thunder, in throats of caves. You ducked into the hut of mutiny, so different from your first estate, gritted to stay for eternities; asked and expected nothing. Spirits scratched the windows like branches. You let them into your falling and gave them fake credentials for a wild solitude: you found your calling.

Posted by: Peter Holm-Jensen at February 26, 2008 2:01 PM · Permalink

While Tim was overseas, his wife began clubbing with her girlfriends one or two nights a week. Then he learned that not all of her "friends" were girls and that was that; he divorced her and returned home.

Later came word that she had killed herself. Tim fell into a deep depression and never recovered.

He inherited several guns from his father, but apparently decided against using any of them for this. He found just what he needed at a pawnshop.

His note just said that he was going to join his wife, wherever the hell he thought that was.

Posted by: Owl Creek Observer at February 26, 2008 3:02 PM · Permalink


The morning I woke with a dagger protruding from my chest, I knew I’d taken the wrong girl to bed. Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for blondes.

Sighing, I tugged at the knife. It scraped bone before sliding free, bloodless. I rubbed the puckered slit as I turned the delicate thing in my hands. Engraved vines curled around the grip.

The phone rang, and it was her.

“Thanks for the knife in my ribs,” I said, caustic.

“That’s what you get for being dead.”

As she said it, I felt my body begin to crumble, all to ash.

Damned enchanted knives.

Posted by: Heather S. Ingemar at February 26, 2008 5:33 PM · Permalink

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