SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙

@stevegwrites.bsky.social

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Cultivating gardens, butterflies, and street dog second chances in Costa Rica. I write myth‑mischief fiction during my seven‑day weekends. Expat living takes away the sting... but not the stench. stevegoldsmithwrites.com

Breakfast was soggy Cheerios floating in a sea of rotten milk, with orange juice. I tried to wolf down the cereal, but it came back up with a roar. The sergeant pulled me out of my cell early the next morning. He called me by my former name, Elba Abel. He said that a missing child alert had made its way to his precinct late the night before. My parents would arrive midday to pick me up. I told him that my name was Elba Kramer. I told him my parents were dead. The people coming to get me were impostors. He couldn’t force me to go with them. I changed back into my street clothes and sat in the lobby of the station. My mother and stepfather arrived in the early afternoon. They looked over at me as they walked in, but didn’t say a word. They stepped into a conference room to talk to the sergeant, then walked out of the station. Again, without a word to me. The arresting officers showed up with their sergeant. They handcuffed me and led me out to the patrol car. We started a slow drive down Rolla’s main street. I could see the pedestrians looking at me in the back of the car, curious to see what was happening. We stopped at the entrance to an old-time barbershop. My caring adults were sitting in the shop with an air of anticipation. The officers pulled me into a barber chair. One officer held my legs in place while the other pinned my elbows. The barber was an amiable older gentleman who seemed quite happy to be plying his trade. There were two other customers in the three-chair barbershop. More than a dozen townspeople crowded around the front window to see what would happen. I fought. I fought hard, kicking and spitting. The barber used an electric razor to chop off my hair, drawing blood more than once. I gave up, exhausted, and let him finish with me. He slapped some astringent lotion on top of my head. The cuts burned and screamed.
Noah’s Cruise You know about Noah and his boat, of course. It says in the Bible that he took the animals on two by two. And whoever converted the plans to imperial cubits must have sucked at arithmetic! The Ark was HUGE, like the size of Atlas’s shrug! Noah was a disgusting creature, with abominable taste. His beard was white, but only if you’re colorblind. It was always filthy—there were maggots suckling lamb’s blood on his chin every Sabbath. It smelled like boiled cabbage, double-dipped in excrement paste—because once wasn’t enough. Did I mention it was really dirty? The Flood thing happened when my Dad and my uncle were still doing business together. Uncle Weh was in charge of the rain and the lightning. Dad had to deal with gathering the pairs. That’s how I came to be on the scene. I was still quite young—just shy of a million Earth years. Maybe six or seven in human time, give or take a plague. But I was whip-smart and loved all creatures Great and Small. The Bright and Beautiful I could do without. Dad told me to round up the unicorns. I started my search in the neighborhood of Urartu. A rumor of a mated pair near the Durupınar Formation led me in that direction. I found them living in a closet of a glade. It was fabulously decorated. Emerald green accent wall paired with a perfect peach-puce. Regal. Dramatic. Like a cabaret stage—only functional. And no feather boas. The vibe was bold, mysterious.
Insects chittering somewhere in Oklahoma, loud enough to blacken the white noise. There must be thousands, millions but I can’t spot them. The cacophony of crickets was oddly comforting. I recorded the sound and put into rotation with my play list. Roadside shrine in New Mexico. I light a candle and pen a note: “my thanks is your curse”. I hear the voice of a single cricket. It is reciting a poem that has no feet. It chants a litany of false faith: Judaism, Hinduism, Catholicism, Confucianism, Islamism, Taoism, Shintoism. An inundation of isms that all mean the same thing, each stated in a different way. The cricket whispers into my silence. “You don’t need a voice to have faith. But you need faith to find your voice.” I fell ill while crossing the Mogollon Mountains to the west of New Mexico. Named for the man who extinguished the inhabitants in the name of his One True God. I crawled into a burned-out chapel and collapsed at the altar. Dreams came to me with urgency, terror, solace, gratitude. I see PapaC in his burial clothes, the old scar from his youth reinscribed with the blood of those he killed. MamaC whispers from behind a veil: “I should have slapped you harder.” My recovery is slow, but my realization is fast. I gain enough strength to scale Sacaton. Rocky ravines, steep ridgelines, occasional scrambling. Boulder-strewn paths brush-filled washes lead me to the summit. The Sonoran panorama is breathtaking. An old surveillance tower looks ready to fall over. I climb, stretch my back, pop my neck. I readied my voice. I have something to say—something to scream. There is but one God—You are not Him. There is but one Way—not hidden, but not yet known. And still—every path finds the Way.
Never Lonely ‘58— ‘64 Most people’s earliest memories form around age 3. My first clear memory is from around then—but nuance muddies the reckoning. I have a mix of dim, clear, and implanted memories. These memories formed after my infantile amnesia faded. I'm not sure which category each early memory belongs to. It probably doesn’t matter. Our memories become our truth, no matter their origin. Elder Elba speaks— Hi there. I’m Elder Elba, the voice that knows the truth behind the lies. I’ll step in when summoned with commentary, corrections, or rare glimpses of truth. I can see through the lies. If Elba lets me, I will work to deepen his truth. I can dimly recall my father. He exited the scene during these early years. He was an Air Force officer, a pilot. He was tall, quite dashing, and something of a raconteur. He met my mother while stationed at Orly Air Base, near Paris. She was a French beauty who had grown up in Paris during the occupation. She hated the Germans. They fell in love before they fell apart. Their quick trip from lust to loathing left behind invisible scars and memories out of reach.
Dear, dear Ruth! Oh, look, another woman forced to play the long game because society won’t let her have agency outright. Ruth doesn’t just survive—she outmaneuvers the system. She turns loyalty into leverage, turns hard labor into visibility, and turns a midnight marriage proposal into a dynasty. And yet? She’s still framed as the humble, obedient foreigner. Convenient, isn’t it?" And let’s talk about that jerk, Boaz. The man notices Ruth because she’s working herself to exhaustion in his fields. He’s impressed by her grit, not her beauty—which, honestly, is refreshing. But let’s not pretend this is some grand romance. This is a strategic alliance, a calculated move that ensures Ruth’s survival and Boaz’s legacy." And Naomi? She’s the quiet mastermind behind it all. She sees the angles, plays the pieces, and ensures Ruth doesn’t just fade into widowhood obscurity. If Ruth is the heart, Naomi is the spine. So what’s the takeaway? Ruth doesn’t climb the ladder—she builds a staircase out of grain husks and silent glances. And when she reaches the top? She doesn’t shout. She plants a flowering tree. And history? History calls her virtuous. But me? I call her a strategist in sheep’s clothing.
Then I got busted. I was kicked out of the Youth Center. Craig and Duane left with me, in a touching show of solidarity. We were too drunk to walk a straight line, not sober enough to head home. We wandered around the area, looking for some fun. Or some trouble. We passed the long, low puke-green building that used to be the base medical clinic. It had been shut down the year before after a renovation at the base hospital. We walked around the back of the building. Duane spotted a door that was slightly ajar. I made the required joke: “When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!”. Craig kept a flashlight clipped to his belt. He said it was because that is what all intrepid explorers do. I suspected that he was scared of the dark. It cast a glow soft enough to be hard to see from the street, but bright enough to show us our way. We took our pocketknives and started to pry the signage off the wall. I got a “Radiology” and a “Urology” sign, Duane scored “Vaccinations”. Craig came out on top with “OB/GYN”. Elder Elba speaks ─ Elba still regrets rejecting Craig’s offer to trade his sign for Elba’s own x-rays and piss. He thought of it once when he saw his wife’s OB stumbling out of a strip club late one night. An OB ogling strippers struck him as so wrong, on every possible level. Elba has never set foot in a strip club. Why bother to look if you can’t touch? His wife changed doctors. SPs were waiting when we came out. Drug screening at the other hospital, another shameful ride home, another disappointment for my broken mother, another humiliation for my stepfather.
He will never suspect it. Or know it, for that matter. Mary snuck away to Magdala. She approached Salome on the sly. Waters must be tested, gold balm rubbed into an open hand. She had invested a modest sum with Agatha, who agreed to apprentice the child. No questions asked. Her silence paid in full. Salome: “The arrangement is set. You pay the fee, I return the girl. We do not discuss it.” Mary: “Agatha will take her as an apprentice. If she’s sharp, she will make herself useful.” Salome: “She is sharp, yes. That is precisely why silence will serve you best.” Maggie enters, sensing the weight in the air but offering no reaction. When Mary laid eyes on that radiant child, she lost her breath. But she gathered it, unwilling to break role. Salome: “You will go with her. It is decided.” Maggie meets her gaze but does not speak. A pause. Acceptance—nothing more. Mary: curt, professional “Salome speaks highly of you. I trust you will prove worthy of the opportunity.” Maggie: measured, composed “I ask only that you address me as Miriam. Maggie is for family and friends.” Mary hesitates—momentary surprise—but does not correct her. Mary: recovering “Then, Miriam. Gather your things.” Miriam: unfazed “I am wearing the only things that I own.” Mary regards her briefly, then pulls a gold piece from her pouch. Mary: a flicker of warmth masked as practicality “Then let’s go shopping.”
You thought crucifixion was cruel? You thought a friend’s betrayal stung? Amateur moves. You want to know the sharpest blade ever forged by the divine? Triplicate. Forms. Paperwork. Carbon-copy soul shredders. Processes designed not to clarify, but to exhaust. To leech the spirit from the willing, the daring, the brave. To grind them down to obedient, compliant mush. My Dad invented extinction by meteor, sure. But his finest legacy? The celestial filing cabinet. The canonization of mediocrity. The enthronement of gatekeepers whose only power is the stamp that says 'Pending.' The litany of Rejection. ‘Disapproved. Resubmit in thirty days for final disapproval. Failure to resubmit in a timely manner will result in the levying of fees and fines equal to one-tenth of your personal net worth, or $5, whichever is larger.’ And Herod? Herod thinks he's clever. Thinks he’s the baddest beast at the trough. Nah. He’s just another middle manager. A clipboard with sandals. The most dangerous man in any universe is the one who follows policy while pretending to wield authority. Remember this, class: empires don’t crumble because of rebels and revolutionaries. They crumble because some sad-eyed scribe lost the right form behind the wrong parchment. And that’s how they’ll try to kill Yeshi, too. Not with hammers. Not with whips. With clean hands wielding a rubber stamp. Six hours later. Inside, Herod’s palace gleamed with the polish of underfed servants and colorblind decorators. The tawdry trio stumbled through security—well, stumbled after arguing with the clipboard guard for thirty-seven minutes about whether “Caspar” had one ‘s’ or two. One clerk tried to get Balthazar to change his name to Batbizaare—said it was more descriptive. His brother-in-law could file the forms, special pricing for the wise.
XI. The Word But I knew others would come. Humans always return. So I reached into the memory of the first settlers—the marks they carved on trees, the symbols they traced in the dirt, the sounds they used to mean danger. One sequence appeared again and again. Colonists Relocated. Outpost Abandoned. Threat Outside. Avoid Night. I carved it the way I speak to the forest — in layers, in depths, in echoes. I pressed the message through bark and cambium, through sapwood and heartwood, each layer expanding the meaning. Until the tree thrummed with it. I left it carved in the tree, scratched deep as a kindness, stacked from skin to heart. A warning. A boundary. A hope that the next arrivals would read it correctly. I waited. I rested. And the new humans came. I did not realize that the pale ones see only the skin of things. XII. John White Returns White arrived two years later, breathless, grey-haired, heart half-shattered.
Maius 22—post-breakfast I meet with Damian and other higher-ranking scribes—Maximos in tow, of course. They carp and moan about the quality of the parchment and the ink choices. It is nearly impossible to find a sturdy quill in this city. I vow to acquire better supplies in the days to come. Max whispers that a deacon overheard Theodotus cursing Constantine’s mother. I murmur something noncommittal and move on. Maius 22—Council Hours Unity frays quietly today—first at the edges, then at the seams. Bishops huddle behind columns and cloisters, voices low, loyalty fluid. The draft Creed is read aloud. His voice is ill-suited to this critical task—lisping through the text and watering it down with his spittle. Murmurs arise before the oration concludes. A loud argument erupts from the pews of the eastern churches. Secundus of Oea, an Arian bishop from the Libyan delegation, stands and makes for the exit. Imperial guards shift to block his way. Constantine rises, descends two steps from his dais, and strikes the bishop across the cheek with his velvet glove. No words spoken. None needed. The bishop lowers his eyes, bows stiffly, and slinks back to his seat. The Council exhales in collective, uneasy silence.
Stonez shrugs and looks around to the edges of the vast meadow. Unbaptized infants are stacked like cordwood along the banks of the river Acheron. Their silent squalls are apparent only on their scrunched, cherubic faces. Millions of them, maybe billions.Condemned for the sins of their fathers or the unhappy accident of their culture. Styx mutters under her breath. “Billions of babies, punished for paperwork errors. Hell’s daycare is the worst.” Stonez kicked a pebble that didn’t bother to move. “Sis, it’s like… the beta version of reality. Chill vibes, no upgrades.” Limbo sighed, eternally drafting a sentence it would never write. The Patriarchs of the Old Testament lounge about waiting for the Harrowing of Hell. Abraham is trying to part Esau’s flaming red hair, to no avail. Adam contentedly eats a rotten apple. Noah sleeps standing up. No rush, time flies in when you’re having fun, and soars when you are eternally damned. Styx(confused): “There’s no smell. Why isn’t there any smell?” Ovid overhears her and offers a terse explanation: Ovid:“Olfactory elision is Satan’s way of ensuring our repose. Imagine if the wind carried the sickly scent of a billion blameless babies.Torture!We are not tortured, we are tutored in the art of apathy.” Styx leaned in and whispered to Stonez, "I don’t care for an eternity of apathy. You?"
Dear Dairy, Oct 7 Mr. G always has a book – every day! Not a school book, but a real book. And he’s a math teacher! He’s reading one called The Once and Future King by T.H. White right now. I don’t know what it’s about, but maybe it will have secret clews about who Mr. G really is? I bet it’s about a chess game where a King gets unmoted to a pawn then gets to be king again. I gotta ask my mom to get it for me to find out. He gave us a test on ratios and purportions proportions. I finished it in like two minutes and never even stopped reading The Borrowers. I saw him grading the papers and he suddenly looked at me. He shook his head and made a little smile. I knew I aced it—now he does too. Gym class sucks. Me & another kid named Jude are the olny ones who get to sit out. We got speshial dipsensations from the coach. Petey doesn’t talk, either. Other kids say he’s a deaf-moot, which means he can’t hear or talk. I bet some of them think I am too. But I’m not. I hear well enough to listen and talk well enuf enough to know when to shut up. Mrs. Roeker is an OK teacher but she don’t care about me. I call her Poker Face cuz she doesn’t ever smile or frown or nothi’n. And Literature class is weher they make me read kid books cuz I am slow. I don’t ever read ‘em because I am a vere good readrer. They think I’m dumb or something cuz I don’t talk much and I spell bad. Jude sits alone at lunch, hunched over his sammich. He moves his lips tween bites. I bet he can talk just fine—but only to hisself. If he’s a smid, that would be intelligent conversashun. Herstory History class is a mix of boring and cool. Mr. Bottoms (I call him Buttz even though he only has one of ‘em) is my teacher. He’s talking about something called the Renaissance (I looked it up before I wrote this). It’s so strange that a mahsine had to be invented before books. I always thought books have always bin round. I don’t usually read the textbook, but maybe I’ll try it this once. You learn someth…
The sand shifted in warm hisses, curling around Yesh’s toes as he crouched in the half-shade of a split palm. A dung beetle rolled its prize across the packed earth, then paused—tilting as if listening. One feeler twitched. Then it reversed course. An elteeb gnud, shoveling dung. Yesh watched, silent. His brow furrowed. Yesh: softly “Bug thinkin’.” Mary, arms full of the new baby James, laughed from the doorway. Thankfully not a twin, she thought. Mary: teasing “He’s thinking?” Yesh nodded. Yesh: serious “He talk sand. Sand say ‘no.’ Sand sound like desert sings.” Mary smiled. “Of course it does.” She knew he was a strange boy. But his toddler drivel was oddly comforting. The beetle reversed again, then spun—tracing its burden across the earth in a looping arc and a sharp line. It left a crude glyph in the dust. It looked, for one breath, like a cross. Yesh clapped once. Almost. He missed, then missed again. Third time’s the charm. He’d need to work on the whole coordination thing. Clapping is hard! Yesh: delighted “Bug dance!” Joseph glanced at the ground. The marking was already almost gone. Joseph: low “Just a bug. Just a dumb little bug. Damn beetle, too.”
Phase Shift G-Alan found him that morning. Still. Silent. Gone. He stroked Justin’s forehead. Spoke the impossible farewell. The silver key around his neck belonged with his diary. He placed it there. The cord on his left wrist belonged there, too. He moved it. The coin—Justin’s friend, his lucky charm—was already near the diary. He saw it. He performed a benediction—a soft kiss to the forehead. He said goodbye to the sublime. He readied himself for the mundane. Notifications, funeral arrangements. Grief, mourning, loss. A new normal no one had imagined. A normal overflowing with emptiness. An abnormal new normal. A suspension of faith. Justin’s mom couldn’t bring herself to enter the room where he died. Brice shouldered that load. She had shouldered every load—never a shrug. She stood in the doorway and breathed the emptiness. Justin’s polar bear painting glowed in the morning sun. His diary was on his desk—key, coin, bracelet. She keyed the diary. Opened it. Engaged his final words. She was stunned. She was shaken. Then, she was stirred—to action. She found G-Alan in his study, fidgeting with his pipe. She handed him the diary. Brice: “Meet our new friend Dairy. She’ll push Justin into the world.”
The Boy Scout troop scheduled a weekend biking campout. The idea was to leave early on Saturday. The destination was a campground about 2 hours away. That spot had miles of bike trails and a hill that featured a 200-foot elevation gain. We rode (or walked) our bikes to the top of the hill. The plan was to race to the bottom. The scout with the best time would get extra dessert at the campfire later in the evening. We lined up four abreast and took off. My bike had a banana seat and a sissy bar. I had clipped a Joker from a deck of cards to the rear wheel. It made a cool slap-slap-slap sound as I rode. Gravity decided to ignore my brakes. I picked up speed and was moving wicked-fast. The finish line was in sight when my wheels went out from under me. My right ankle got wrapped in the chain. I was dragged the last 50 feet on my stomach, arms over my head. The asphalt and gravel tore me to shreds. I had pebbles and tar embedded under my skin. Blood seeped out of the little tears along my torso. My ankle was imprinted with the pattern of the chain, black with oil and red with blood. It hurt like hell. Every member of the troop earned credit for their first aid merit badge that night. They took turns using hot compresses to soothe my pain and tweezers to pick the debris from under my skin—one of the older scouts cleaned and bandaged my ankle. Everything still hurt, and everything felt better. The names and faces of those boys are lost to me. But the feeling of being cared for so gently stayed with me for a long time. We closed out the school year. I attended graduation again. My sister walked across the stage that year. I drafted my Valedictorian address in preparation for next year. I said goodbye to friends and acquaintances. I even scheduled an appointment with Shrugs to
Stonez loved pulling wings off Flies. A countermeasure against the lice issue, summoning natural predators. A miscommunication in the Office of Pest Control cured him of that obsession. The predator population algorithm was too broad, meaning every species listed under "winged nuisance" surged in number. Scarabs demand better press. Pharaoh attacked mid-sentence by a swarm of overly enthusiastic fruit flies. Heavy sigh. OK, the Livestock. An enhanced cattle health program, extending lifespan calculations for Egyptian herds. No problem—what could possibly go wrong? Right. The Bureaucratic Expiration Date Error. A default setting auto-triggered mass expiration notices, prematurely reclassifying all livestock as “expired inventory—render at will.” Goats refused to acknowledge their mortality or even understand that they’re already dead. Pharaoh initiated emergency beef rationing. Let them eat flanks! Stonez tries Boils. A temperature moderation decree, to cool the region amidst record-high desert heat. The Divine Side-Effects Warning Was Ignored, or maybe Misplaced. Who cares? The cooling clashed with existing climate control mandates, resulting in flesh-
OFFICIAL DECREE From the Bureau of Apprentice Placement & Gender Obfuscation (BAPGO) Subject: Oblique Identity Clauses & Probationary Shadow Roles All apprenticeship assignments must comply with Regulation 404.NG (Non-Gendered) and Obfuscation Inclusion Subsection (O.I.S.-1138). Applicants are strictly forbidden from self-identifying prior to Placement Day. All identities will be assigned by a randomly convened Determination Committee, using the Dice of Fate™ and a divining rod last seen in Jericho. If rod is unavailable, substitute a carrot. (Preferably raw. Do not dip in hummus—causes gender errors in 37.3% of cases.) MANDATORY FORMS Form BAPGO-777: Apprenticeship Intentionality Statement Form BAPGO-999: Gender Nullification Waiver Failure to file both forms by dusk on Preclarity Eve will result in default enrollment under the Shadow Track, supervised by a mentor selected by lottery goose. BAPGO accepts no responsibility for apprentices who self-declare, self-disclose, or self-destruct. Anno Mundi 3767 Adar Joseph’s tribe arrives in good time, none the worse for wear. Gazpacho whispered to Joe about a property on the outskirts of town. It’s perfect for them. (I do a very convincing Gazpacho, I assure you. And if Gaz can convince Joe that Mary’s a Virgin, he’s silly putty in my hands.) They pile into the small house, triplets stacked like cordwood. Yesh shares a small attic chamber with James. Ptah moves into the study-house, hangs out his shingle: Manash Ptah, Shaman-for-Hire Answers available. Path is unpaved.
Anno Mundi 3762 Tishrei The workyard behind their home was warm with sawdust and echoes. Joseph’s tools lay scattered near the bench—awl, plane, adze—each worn smooth from years of stubborn devotion. Yesh squatted nearby, fingers deep in the dirt, planting tiny pebbles in rows like a harvest that would never come. He was muttering to himself. Counting under his breath. Each pebble had a name, a purpose, a place in his world. Joseph glanced over. Joseph: impatient “What are you doing now?” Yesh: earnest “Planting seeds.” Joseph: snorts “Stones don’t grow, boy.” Yesh shrugged. “Neither does anger. But you keep planting it.” Joseph: sharply “Watch that tongue. Don’t think being her miracle makes you clever.” Yesh didn’t look up. “Only an observation.” Joseph stepped closer, wiping sweat from his brow. He was tired. The roof beam had splintered that morning. Orders were behind. Mary had no flour, and James had a raging rash. He wasn’t in the mood. Joseph: low and cold “You forget your place. You think a bastard like you can teach me?” The word hit like an unexpected kick to the gut. Yesh stood. Slow. Quiet. Eyes wide. Yesh: “You said I was sent.” Joseph: “That’s what your mother says.” They stood like that for a moment. Man and child. One trembling with anger, the other with something quieter, deeper.
Lunius 12—late-night The night is heavy, humid. The door creaks open. Helena slips inside without a word. We are in Agatha’s side chamber—a narrow slip of a room near the baths. The walls sweat. The faint scent of lavender and damp stone clings to the air. Moonlight slashes across the bed, catching the worn weave of the blanket. Agatha has left no lamp, no fire—only the hush of dripping water in some hidden pipe. Helena stands by the door, her robe loose at the throat. Helena: quiet, detached. " One day soon, you’ll reach for me—and I’ll already be gone. Constantine means to send me east. He told me so this afternoon." Archie: flat, automatic "I know. Callinicus directed me to draft two scribes to accompany you." Helena: “And you will leave the Villa—back to the waiting arms of Eusebius.” Archie: “I will leave the Villa, yes. But until then, the only arms I long for are yours.” She unties the sash without ceremony, lets the robe fall in a soft heap at her feet. Helena: almost a whisper, "We are running out of time. Fill me up anew, my love. My emptiness is a void." Archie: hollow "My heart beats in a vacuum. I will try to fill your lacuna." We move toward the bed without touching. The blanket is rough against my palms as I guide her down. There is no urgency. No tenderness. It feels obligatory—not inevitable. A performance for no audience but memory. She turns her face away from mine as I enter her. Her body yields mechanically, the way one submits to a familiar sadness. My eyes stay fixed on the pale stone wall behind her head. We finish quickly. No sighs, no clinging. Only the slow steadying of breath.
Alexandria. A wonder in its own right, nesting a Wonder of its own. Yesh spent seven years wandering the city. His family settled in the Delta district, home to the Alexandrian Jewish enclave. But every district invited visitors. So Yesh visited them all. He listened in every one—always attentive. He spoke to everyone who would hear his voice—ever inquisitive, learning. He never spoke about himself. Not knowledgeable enough in the subject to carry intelligent conversation. (Pardon my verb tense here. The whole time warp conjugation thing still stymies me at times. In each description of a District, perhaps hear: ‘He was going to have been speaking...’ Like that.) He remembered everything—the elephant in every room. He was forgotten in an instant, as we all are. But somehow his presence lingered in every heart. Alpha The royal quarter gleamed like a lie you wanted to believe. The Great Library stretched like a sunlit scroll across marble foundations. Pharos cut the morning mist with its mirrored crown, signaling order in every direction but up. The cedar doors of the Serapeum were carved with myths older than truth—gods locked in stiff profile, kings with too many rings. Lebanese Cedars: strong, sanctified, and smug about it. This was where sight ruled—vision as power, brightness as law. Beta Beta echoed like a chambered flute. Aristocrats quarreled in courtyards, debating epics and taxes with equal fervor. Theaters rang with rehearsed tragedies and unrehearsed applause. Even their silence was stylized—pregnant, paced, never accidental. Syrian Juniper-paneled halls soaked in sound like pride in oil. You didn’t speak here unless you meant to be heard twice: once aloud, once remembered. Gamma
The Fire-Starting station was manned by an older kid named Darren. He was tall and strong, very military in his bearing. He spoke softly and taught me how to start a blaze using flint and steel. The winner of the Fire-Starting competition is the scout with the fastest time from first strike to steady flame. Each scout would have three chances to ignite the moss. The best of those three tries would be used to determine the winner. Darren provided me with the flint, and I pulled out my own pocketknife to provide the steel. He placed a loose ball of dried moss into a ceramic dish. He showed me how the sparks from the strikes would jump into the moss and ignite it. Elder Elba speaks ─ The knife was not technically Elba’s. He had stolen it from a Petaluma neighbor’s junk drawer the year before. I took a breath and pictured the flame. I placed the moss and raised the flint. I struck once, then twice. The third time was the charm—strike to blaze in under 10 seconds. I knew that I could do better. The second try consumed the moss at only strike two—about 6 seconds. The third attempt landed on the 1st strike. Only 3 seconds, by Darren’s watch. He confidently predicted that I would be the winner, and he was right. The Fastest Fire Starter was accorded the honor of lighting the farewell bonfire. There was a small amphitheater setting at the camp, with low stadium seats on four sides. All of the kids and several adults would come together for the closing ceremonies on our final night. A huge bonfire was erected in the middle of the square. The teepee-shaped structure stood over five feet tall, with plenty of dry wood, stacked for ventilation. There were dozens of balls of dry
Organizamos un pequeño desfile de modas para algunos de nuestros perros rescatados. ¡Qué lindos! Por favor, ayúdennos a alcanzar nuestra meta de recaudación de fondos de julio: actualmente estamos en $127/$500. ¡Estamos ampliando nuestras instalaciones para incluir un nuevo espacio de juegos de 120 metros cuadrados y una cocina industrial para la producción de comida para perros! ___________________________________________________________________________________ We had a little fashion show for some of our rescue dogs. So cute! Please help us to meet our July fundraising goal - currently at $127/$500. We are expanding our facility to include a new 100 sq meter play space and an industrial kitchen for dog food production! ___________________________________________________________________________________ Card: eljardinreverente.org/mascotas Zelle: stevegcostarica@gmail.com SINPE: 8968 2550
The lesson began before dawn—because, according to Ptah, "truth prefers cold feet and quiet roots." He led them into the garden in silence. Seven boys and one girl. The light was just beginning to thin the edge of the sky, painting fig leaves silver. The triplets were forbidden from attending. Too loud, too punchable. Ptah stopped at a small, fenced plot. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the garden was already listening. Ptah walked barefoot along the narrow spiral path between thyme and fig, motioning for Yesh to follow. They didn’t speak until the stone bench came into view, still damp with night. Ptah sat. Yesh remained standing. Ptah: without looking “There was once a man who planted a garden. Not for food. Not for beauty. Just to see what would grow.” Yesh: quiet “What did he plant?” Ptah: “Everything he could. Wheat and bramble. Herbs and poison. He scattered them all, then stepped back.” Yesh frowned. Yesh: “Why poison?” Ptah: “Why not? The garden wasn’t the test.” He ran his palm over the cracked surface of the bench, then pointed to a patch of wild mint choking the base of an olive sapling. Ptah: “He waited. The poison sprouted first. Fast. Loud. But the wheat was patient.” Yesh followed his gaze. Yesh: “Did he pull the poison?” Ptah: “No. He let it speak.” Yesh: “Speak?” Ptah: soft “Weeds lie with speed. Wheat speaks with time. If you interrupt the story, you never learn which is which.” Yesh sat beside him. Yesh: “So what happened to the garden?” Ptah: “It grew wild. He watched. And one day, it began to whisper things he hadn’t planted.”
Maius 26—late dawn The sun has barely crested the tiled rooftops when I arrive at the appointed place. A servants’ terrace—unused since the last round of renovations—hangs like an afterthought on the rear of the Villa’s east wing. It serves now as a perch for birds, dust, and whispered instructions. Agatha awaits, leaning against the low stone railing. A linen napkin covers a small tray: bread, cheese, and two cups. She does not look up when I arrive. Agatha: “She regrets the delay. Pressures are mounting. You will see her again two days hence, just before sunset.” She gestures lazily toward the western horizon. Agatha: “There’s a disused balcony near the scriptorium, with a view of the sea. Bring your full attention—and your full discretion.” She pours a cup of watered wine and pushes it toward me. Agatha: “You’ll want to be ready. She intends to say something that may unsettle you.” Archelaus: “You are positively cryptic, my dear Agatha.” Agatha: cutting “Your familiarity is a breeding ground for my contempt.” I absorb the sting, impassive. Agatha: reminiscing, “I was present at Helena’s birth—I snipped her umbilical and rinsed the womb blood from her face. My service has been only to her since she took her first breath.” Archelaus: admiring, “You are more mother to her than servant—that much is clear.” Agatha: “My love for her is unconditional. I fear for her safety, even for her life. I fear for yours, too. I ask a favor of you—try to help her see this folly for what it is. She will listen to you, more than she does to me.”
Dear, dear Ruth! Oh, look, another woman forced to play the long game because society won’t let her have agency outright. Ruth doesn’t just survive—she outmaneuvers the system. She turns loyalty into leverage, turns hard labor into visibility, and turns a midnight marriage proposal into a dynasty. And yet? She’s still framed as the humble, obedient foreigner. Convenient, isn’t it?" And let’s talk about that jerk, Boaz. The man notices Ruth because she’s working herself to exhaustion in his fields. He’s impressed by her grit, not her beauty—which, honestly, is refreshing. But let’s not pretend this is some grand romance. This is a strategic alliance, a calculated move that ensures Ruth’s survival and Boaz’s legacy." And Naomi? She’s the quiet mastermind behind it all. She sees the angles, plays the pieces, and ensures Ruth doesn’t just fade into widowhood obscurity. If Ruth is the heart, Naomi is the spine. So what’s the takeaway? Ruth doesn’t climb the ladder—she builds a staircase out of grain husks and silent glances. And when she reaches the top? She doesn’t shout. She plants a flowering tree. And history? History calls her virtuous. But me? I call her a strategist in sheep’s clothing.
Anno Mundi 3774 Adar An aptly named maqha on Straight Street—the Odiferous Foot. It means ‘Star of Buxus’ in the local dialect, but translations are what they are, right? They’d been drawn into the café by music—strings and laughter woven through cinnamon smoke. Yesh, Maggie, and a delightful Syrian elder spent blissful hours arguing the true name of the architect of the Sphinx. Weighty question, indeed. The Syrian elder had a beard like a burnt broom and a laugh that made neighbors forgive him things. “You should visit Mercury,” said the old man, flicking cardamom seeds into his palm. “Lives in Aleppo now. Calls himself a teacher, though he’s mostly a menace with parables and pomegranates.” Maggie raised an eyebrow. “A teacher?” “Of a sort. Says he’s the twin of Ptah of Alexandria.” Yesh and Maggie exchanged an intrigued look. “We know Ptah.” The man laughed. “Then you owe yourselves the other half of the puzzle.” He laughed again. Somehow, it wasn’t annoying. “Tell Mercury I said nothing helpful. Then he’ll know the referral came from me!”. More laughing. Ok, annoying now on the horizon. By the time they left, Maggie smelled like clove, Yesh had lost two coins in a rigged game, and both had agreed to head for Aleppo. (Did I ever tell you about the kid from Aleppo who tried to knock me off a bench? I kicked his so hard he landed in Damascus with a bruise the size of Babylon.) >>Seed: Parable of the Yeast in the Dough<< She asked the baker how he got the bread so fluffy. He shrugged. “A bit of yeast in a satchel of flour. Wait. Bake. Pray.” Yesh nodded, distracted. But Maggie tilted her head. “It’s always hidden,” she said. “The thing that transforms it all.”
Lunius 21—late afternoon Phyrgias’s house creaks under the evening wind. I sit hunched near the broken hearth while Festus broods over a goblet of sour wine. He speaks without looking at me. Festus: low, dry. "You need a whisper carried. Fine. I’ll find a throat loose enough to pass it." He stands, stretching until his joints crack. Festus: "One of the kitchen girls still blushes at your name. The plump one with the quick feet. Sabina, they call her. She’ll want silver." I toss a small leather pouch onto the splintered table. The silver inside clinks like brittle bones. Archie: "Give her that, and a line she won't forget. She’s too seek out Agatha and pass it along." He cups his hands around his mouth, mocking a whisper. Archie: "At cockcrow, wait in the labyrinth garden near the eastern quarter. Wear a yellow scarf. Bring a friend." Festus stretches again, preparing himself for the task. He departs. No ink. No paper. Only a whisper. Whispers can work miracles. Lunius 21—evening Festus’ lodging now smells of wet stone and simmering grease. I sit hunched near the hearth, the monk’s robe folded at my feet. Festus returns, brushing rain from his shoulders with a grunt. He tosses a small leather purse onto the table—the pouch that once held the silver. Festus: gruff, almost fond "Message carried. Coin spent. Sin committed—self-absolved"
And whenever I start warming up to him again, I postflect on the Plague Years. The jello mold of my soul sucks out the heat. Then I’m better again. Anywho—I blame the scribes. Their ineptitude during those times will be echoed in the annals of every Grand Scribetorium down through the ages. Those vomitoriums of vile vowels, spat up by parchment priests, caused all of the trouble that plagued my relations for eons. Uncle Weh lost a bet to Ramses—I don’t postmember the terms. But not important. But I do prelicit fond memories of Yul Brynner’s icy stare and regal defiance. What a guy! I got there early to see the sights. Pyramids, the Great Sphinx of Giza. Tourists were crowding the front. I decided to orbit the leonine monstrosity and see what I could see. A portal to another world, tucked under a tufted tail. The sphinxter. Scribes worked night and day. Bastards. Decrees were delivered for a ten-pack of improvements—rewards for the Pharoah and his subjects. Stonez and I drew lots to cut up the list. We flipped a coin taken from the eyelid of a long-dead cyclops. Me first—Blood. A mild water purity enhancement decree, meant to raise quality control standards. Then Nile Clause, inscribed upside-down and backwards. Overcompensation—the system flagged "impure elements" and over-corrected by converting all liquids into high-iron-content slurry. Oops. Stonez handled the Frogs. A wildlife conservation order, encouraging frog populations for natural pest control.
I was still grounded in the spring. The front porch of our housing unit faced the active runway. I would sometimes sit outside and read, watching the planes take off and land. It was mesmerizing. One morning, I watched a C-9 Nightingale come in for a touch-and-go landing. This was a common event. The C-9 was configured as a hospital ship, with a red cross on either side of the tail. Scott was the headquarters of the Military Airlift Command. Red Cross ships were mostly stationed there, due to Scott’s central location. The plane touched down, then caught enough air to sling it back into the sky. The ship wobbled. It wobbled again. I watched it in horror as it lost altitude. It plowed into an old farmhouse a few hundred feet past the end of the runway. I had a clear view of the impact point when it hit. Now here was a story! I started to shape it in my mind so that I could deliver a thrilling version at school the following week. I recounted the details on the bus and carried on, embellishing my story until lunchtime. I was pulled out of the lunchroom and carted off to the office. A school staffer named Mister Peniston (he had a penis in his name!) sat me down. He told me that he had heard that I had witnessed the plane crash the previous weekend. I told him that I had. He told me that I should be more sensitive, that I should not talk about it. The pilot of the downed plane was the father of two of my classmates. Denver and Dallas were a set of identical twins. They claimed that they were born 2 weeks apart, in those respective cities. They were funny as hell.
Now, you’ve all heard the story. Chaos led to light, which led to God and Satan, which led to Banishment. Right? God went on to conduct spirited rape, T-bone crucifixion, and ridiculous resurrection. With me so far? Well-none of it’s true. Except the part about my Dad getting banished—and my Grandpa spinning apart. The thing about Grandpa… His name wasn’t Chaos. That’s just a term some old Greek fart came up with to sound scary. Like Kindergarten. Or Kaiserschmarrn. Nothing like perfect high German to give you the jim-jams. Right? (Ve have vays to make you talk. Ekelhaft! Disgusting!) Now, the unknown Universe is deeply palindromic. Every oscillating orb etched with the Screed: Madame, I’m Adam. Go hang a salami! I’m a lasagna hog. But the known Universe, where we all hang out, is acronymically inclined. In the beginning was the Acronym… and it was FUBAR (of course). My Grandad was a singularity, a MAVEN—Master Architect of Vast Emptiness Nesting. He styled himself TRUMP—Tonal Rift Under Moral Pestilence. The story goes that he hated everything, especially himself. So he grabbed the Universe by her p- (ahem) cat-tail root and split himself in twain. His twin sons were named YAHWEH and SATAN.
Dear Dairy, Oct 18 I get to spend the weekend with G-Alan and Brice! My mom and dad are going someplace to talk about things. I dunno why they can’t talk at home, but it’s none of my business anyway. I don’t know what got into me but I talked with both of them a lot yesterday. I guess my A+ and my Gettysburg gave me permission to try. It was hard at first, I was kinda stammering. But suddenly it just felt normal and I almost forgot how it used to be. G-Alan loved the THUNK from Gettysburg. He called it “The THUNK Heard Round the World” and pronounced it in all capitals. We played a game where he’d say something and I’d echo it back, like “The quick brown fox jumps over the lasy dog”. I had to say it backwards every way I could, like word-for-word left-to-right then right-to-left. The backwords (take it to the bank!) the same way. Like that. We figured out pronounciation rules and he write them down in a leather notebook for me. Like “fox” is “xof” but pronunciated “zof”. He filled up most of a page with rules for like “quick”, saying “k-k-e-uk” backwards. Get it? It feels like I can see everything all at once, but still nothing can really see me. Weird, right? So now I have secrets with G-Alan just like I have with you! Don’t be made cuz I don’t share no dreams, just new stuff. He took me over to a shopping mall in a big town close to us and bought me a Sony TC-50 casette recorder. One of ‘em actualy went to the moon, but mine never did. I call it my TalkMan. G-Alan said I don’t have to talk to nobody I don’t want to but I can talk to my Talkman any time and he’ll listen to the tapes if I let him. I got a dozen cassette tapes and labelled six as G-Alan and six as Dairy. So now I’m gonna talk my dreams and listen to ‘em when I write ‘em down. I think that’ll make my dreams sound better for you, not embarrassing like a coupla weeks ago. And nobody will ever hear those tapes cuz I have special tapes just for G-Alan. Anyway, my voice sounds really weird when …
And whenever I start warming up to him again, I postflect on the Plague Years. The jello mold of my soul sucks out the heat. Then I’m better again. Anywho—I blame the scribes. Their ineptitude during those times will be echoed in the annals of every Grand Scribetorium down through the ages. Those vomitoriums of vile vowels, spat up by parchment priests, caused all of the trouble that plagued my relations for eons. Uncle Weh lost a bet to Ramses—I don’t postmember the terms. But not important. But I do prelicit fond memories of Yul Brynner’s icy stare and regal defiance. What a guy! I got there early to see the sights. Pyramids, the Great Sphinx of Giza. Tourists were crowding the front. I decided to orbit the leonine monstrosity and see what I could see. A portal to another world, tucked under a tufted tail. The sphinxter. Scribes worked night and day. Bastards. Decrees were delivered for a ten-pack of improvements—rewards for the Pharoah and his subjects. Stonez and I drew lots to cut up the list. We flipped a coin taken from the eyelid of a long-dead cyclops. Me first—Blood. A mild water purity enhancement decree, meant to raise quality control standards. Then Nile Clause, inscribed upside-down and backwards. Overcompensation—the system flagged "impure elements" and over-corrected by converting all liquids into high-iron-content slurry. Oops.
Epilogue Augusto 8, 367 AD I write to the flicker of a dying candle. My monk’s cave near Ein Feshkha is sparse and poorly ventilated. But some whisper enlivens the flame. I wandered the outskirts of the realm longer than Moses’ trek through the desert. Nobody called me Archie again. I styled myself Caecus—the unseen. I chose this final resting place to spend my last days among Essene ghosts. A comet appeared three nights ago— perhaps the same comet that painted my eyes from onyx to dusk. I cannot know. I imagined the tail a parchment unspooled across the heavens. I dreamed of an unknown hand inscribing a vision: The final ruin of the Creed, to be made manifest in less than a generation. My work is completed at last. I sit beneath that etched canvas and reflect on my sins. I am beyond absolution. I am irredeemable. I strive to forgive myself—and fail. I slaughtered an innocent who offered me his love. That is my only regret. I know it is time. Time to take to my pallet. Time to summon my helpmeet for the last time. I will call that little whisper of death. She will answer. I will urge her to guard me from the sandman for eternity. She will answer. She will guard. I will sleep. At long last— I will sleep.
Anno Mundi 3759 The Nile wind kissed the courtyard like a mother trying not to wake her child. Yesh, three and a half, squatted in the dust just outside the shade. His curls shimmered, sweat-laced. A frog croaked once and leapt. He laughed. Yesh, not the frog. A girl no older than five sat near, clutching a cracked clay doll. Her tunic was torn. Her lip, too. Yesh shuffled closer. Said nothing. Just sat beside her. After a long pause, he offered her his beetle shell. Shiny green. Sacred, to him. She didn’t speak either. Just took it. A younger boy waddled over. Loud. Mucus-slicked. The girl turned her shoulder. Yesh patted the stone beside him. The boy blinked. Sat. Another girl came. Then a pair of brothers. Then one more. They made a circle. Dust-drawn. Uneven. Perfect. They didn’t play much, but they stayed. Someone watching said later: He didn’t say a word. He just made space. (Even as a tyke, Yesh had a certain magnetism. He was constantly rinsing iron filings out of his hair.) FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF CELESTIAL FORMS & FORFEITURES All Form 2B Approval requests must be submitted -before- the incident they authorize. Backdating is a sin. Backsliding is expected. Exceptions require a formal Waiver of True Faith (DCFF Form W.T.F.-999.1). No exceptions unless pre-authorized. See Form 2A, PreAuthorization for Preliminary Disapproval.
Dear Dairy, Oct 14 Mr. G gave me a book today. Not a real book—a textbook. It had a magic word across the front: Algebra. It made me think of Ali Baba from the book about the thieves. It’s a Math book with a capital “M”, for sure. It’s got polynomails polynominals and functions and radicals and somethin’ called quadratics. And polynomials ain’t talking parrots—I checked! He told me that I didn’t have to do the work in his class any more but the only book I’m allowed to read in his class is this one. I flipped through the pages and thought about it. I mean, he’s tellin’ me what to do and I don’t really like that. But he ain’t saying I can’t read… only that I can only read this one. And only iun his room. I tell him I will do it. And I will! Miss Candy gave us homework to draw a map of the place where we live. Like, if it’s a house with a yard, make a map of it. If it’s like a partment, then just the inside. I’m gonna do it cuz it sounds like fun. I can ask Mom to get me some big paper and some pencils for it, and like a ruler or something. Miss Candy talk about “drawing to scale”, so ig something is 10 feet long in real life, it might be only 1 inch on a map. If it’s 20 feet, it’s 2 inches. Get it? That Miss Sweet is really smart! The Eel made us run around the gym like 50 times. It wasn’t so bad cuz usually there’s a big curtain in the middle to hid the girls from the boys. It was open today so we all got to see girls in shorts running and jumpin’ and stuff. There’s something about girls I reall likey, I just can’t put my finger on it. Maybe after I really talk to one it will start to make sense? And Mister Funky Swain said that the wholepart of earth that we stand on is just big rocks floating in a lake of fire. He din’t say it, but it means science proves that hell is real.
Dear Dairy, Oct 25 Brice let me sleep in and I’m glad. My head’s been feeling funny kinda like there’s a twist in the hose or something. I guess I’m a hose-head! We all went to Eagle Discount for food shopping. I got to buy a big-size Reese’s—the two pack—and a new copy of Galaxy. I don’t know where they find their writers but I wanna go there and wave my pen til they pick me. Back home, G-Alan had a surprise: we were all goin’ to Shakey’s Pizza! They’ve got those stripy jackets and round hats and bowties—really dressed up for pizza, you know? The hats have a brown band that says SHAKEYS, I guess so the eldenups working there won’t wear ‘em home. They got a seven-cheese pizza. Seven kinds of cheese! I only ever had American and Government. I didn’t know there was that many others in the world. I bet you’ve got a lot of cheeses in DairyLand. Like not just seven, but seven squared maybe. Am I write? And one more thing—they’ve got a Player Piano! I heard of Baby Grand and Upright, but Player’s new to me. Nobody sits at it but the keys go down right with the music. Or maybe that Invisible Man from the book works here. They have a song playin’ sometimes that tells you about Shakey’s. It goes “You’ll have Fun at Shakey’s also pizza”. You can hear the capital in that F-word when you listen close. How neat is that? They serve up Fun and if you’re hungry you get some pizza pie! G-Alan told me that my Dad wuz going to pick me tomorrow after church and take me to the Gateway Arch. It’s a beautiful silvery monument. I read in a math book that its shape is a catenary, a U-shaped curve. That is a math vocabulary word so that tells your right there that Math is awesome. It makes me thimk of a Sylvester and Tweety from the cartoon cuz it sounds like cat-and-canary mushed together, kinda. It is HUGE and it scares me cuz I don’t want to fall off of it by accident. But G-Alan says it’s engineered and engineered things are safe. So I’ll go. We were driving home and I sa…
Limbo sighed, eternally drafting a sentence it would never write. The Patriarchs of the Old Testament lounge about waiting for the Harrowing of Hell. Abraham is trying to part Esau’s flaming red hair, to no avail. Adam contentedly eats a rotten apple. Noah sleeps standing up. No rush, time flies in when you’re having fun, and soars when you are eternally damned. Styx(confused): “There’s no smell. Why isn’t there any smell?” Ovid overhears her and offers a terse explanation: Ovid:“Olfactory elision is Satan’s way of ensuring our repose. Imagine if the wind carried the sickly scent of a billion blameless babies.Torture!We are not tortured, we are tutored in the art of apathy.” Styx leaned in and whispered to Stonez, "I don’t care for an eternity of apathy. You?" Stonez: “I don’t know. Seems ignorance would be a greater gift…” They lock eyes as Styx intones: “Brother, what’s the difference between ignorance and apathy?” Stonez waits a beat, a smile playing in his eyes. “Sister, I don’t know and I don’t care!”
Noah Misses the Boat And Then There Were None, Two by Two He decrees it. Yahweh demands Noah build an Ark to escape the coming Flood. Flora and Fauna from all points of the compass will be gathered and delivered. Those few will survive. All others shall perish! Noah’s my great-great-great Grandpa--nobody knows exactly how many greats. But it doesn’t matter. I called him Triple-Greatpa, but not to his face. You can call me Justie. I have 58 years and he still treats me like a child. He’s a notorious fuss budget and gets annoyed whenever he’s not feeling annoyed. His beard is white, but only if you’re colorblind. It’s always filthy—you can see maggots suckling lamb’s blood on his chin every Sabbath. And it smells like boiled cabbage cooked in rotten egg juice then dipped in cloven-hoofed excrement paste. Did I mention it’s really dirty? Anyway, my job is to record the names of every group of animals and birds and plants and trees that God summons to the Ark. I’ve been a scribelator for a long time, so this is light duty. The pay is good, Saturday’s off, and I have a golden ticket to board before God wipes out the rest of His beloved creation. So I go that going for me, right? My wife, Esmeralda, turns 12 in only a few days. I will be able to focus on my job without fear of a harlot hampering my ability to walk. No crenellations of crabs for me! They start arriving in dribs and drabs. A drift of pigs. Flocks of fowl. A cowardice of curs. A pounce of feral cats. An ocean of olive groves in wicker baskets, a stand of bay laurels suffocated by a murder of crows. A kaleidoscope of butterflies. A volary of birds—hundreds, thousands.
Constantine’s mood is hard to read today—his stride sure, but his shoulders drawn tight beneath his cloak. He speaks first, as he often does when unease overtakes him. Constantine: irritated, “They would turn a single vowel—into a gallows.” Archelaus: Even “The fewer the letters, the sharper the rope, Dominus.” He chuckles—short, humorless. Constantine: dark “It would be simpler to drown the lot and begin anew.” Archelaus: Careful. Some tides might help such a cause... though one would have to be very specific which swimmers deserve the shore.” Constantine stops, looking over the lake. For a moment, he seems not a god, but a man—wet boots, burdened brow, heavy with the price of empire. Constantine: Low. You would choose who swims?” Archelaus: measured “Only if commanded. Never by whim.” He grunts, satisfied, and resumes walking. The mist almost swallows his next words. Constantine: flat “Doctrine is not the rock, Archelaus. It is the knife used to cut the rock into usable shapes.” Archelaus: quiet. “And the hand that holds the knife need not bleed for it to be sure.” Constantine: grim “Bleed they will. The bishops. The fools. All of them.” He turns sharply toward the upper cloister, leaving me standing in the dripping shade of the tower. I watch him go—his anger heavy enough to crack stone.
Each Able kid doubled up with one of the Ranger kids. I bunked with Kev. My sister stayed with the Rangers' 12-year-old girl. Stepbro drew the short straw and roomed with the six-year-old boy, who still wet the bed. The six of us formed an instant bond. We formed a gang and spent the next days as an informal ambassador corps for the island. We all wore khaki shorts and white polo shirts. I carried a clipboard—it projected gravitas. We roamed as a unit and chatted up friendly-looking tourists. We offered to use their own camera to take a photo. We showed them where to pose for the best background. We made them feel welcome. We made them laugh. When the tourists left, the island was ours. We had access to all parts of the Statue. We climbed the hundreds of steps of the spiral staircase to the Crown and looked down on the lights of the city. I made a joke about looking up the Lady’s skirt and was rewarded with gales of laughter. We were given a special treat one night. The Ranger agreed to let us go into the Torch! There was a 40-foot ladder that led to the platform. It had been closed to the public for 50 years, but we weren’t the public. We were the Lady’s family. I made a joke: “We’re not her step-children, we’re her stair-children”. Nobody laughed—tough crowd!. The observation deck in the Torch offered a panoramic view. There was a light wind that night, carrying the smell of salt air and smog. My vertigo threatened until I remembered that I had made that up. I felt small, insignificant, a dust mote in God’s eye.
I See Dead Beeples Me and You Have Unbalanced Ballast World! A BIG mistake this morning. I woke up. I could never sleep through a whole day anyway so it’s not a mistake. But I wish I had slept longer, long enough to miss school. Nobody was around when I went downstairs so I made my own cereal and some wheat toast with white butter. We used to use yellow butter but Brice says that’s savagery and she only uses white. And anyway it tastes better. More buttery. There was a thunk and the slices of toast flew into the air then landed back in their opposite slots, upside down. I didn’t ever see that before, but it was cool. And the toast smelled better on my ears. I walked to school and started getting the jim-jams. There’s one big oak tree on Oak Street (of course) that looks like it has a bad hangover, like PapaC sometimes. There’s a big puddle of sap vomit on the sidewalk and I have to step around it. It smells like farts sound—heftie sefties, I mean. The school looks deserted. The front doors are padlocked—with a chain of tiny skulls, like some pygmy ward against escape. I went around the side and saw that my clapper door was ajar. You know a door’s not a door when it’s ajar, right? I went in and cut left toward Home Room. The door was propped open. I could smell unfiltered Pall Malls and the sick-sweet rotgut puke that I knew too well. PapaC was standing by the window. He didn’t see me—but I smelled him. He was dead—dead as graveyard dirt. His scar was split open but it wasn’t oozing blood. It was expelling rotten eggs and worm guts. I figured I better close the door. Mr. G’s door was open, too. MamaC was sitting at the desk. Her right hand was the size of a giant’s catcher’s mitt with the pocket twice the size of the glove. She was running the broken fingers of her left hand over the top of the desk, feeling the Math in the scratches. She was muttering about pee drops, yellow and moist. Every time she said moist she’d slap her mitt to her fivehead. I closed that doo…
He gave me a sheet that said Algebra Unit 1 Final Test. I was already reading Unit 3, but I guess he didn’t know that. He told me it’s a open book test which was kinda dumb because I was sitting there with the book open already, right? So I started doin’ it. I looked at the first problem and marked the answer, then I read part of where I was in Unit 3. Then I marked number 2, and read. Then 3, read, 4, read. Mr. G interrupted me and said he meant I could look up how to do the problems in Unit 1. That’s what open-book means, I guess. I didn’t look up, just mumbles “Who would ever want to do something like that?”. He didn’t answer, just wandered away. I didn’t mean to disappoint him but I was in the middle of learning how to graph equations. He should know enough not to interrupt a kid doing that! But I still like him. After school, Miss Clapalot told me to say that Lincoln speech out loud to her. She handed me a copy of it but I waived it away. I stood up straight and looked over her shoulder cuz I didn’t want to close my eyes. I said speech perfect and I kinda tried to use G-Alan’s voice. Then something spooky happened. When I said “shall not perish from the earth” my brain went THUNK! I could see the whole thing backwards, like “earth the from perish not shall”. I told her and she didn’t believe me so I said the whole thing backward. She looked at me like I was magic or something. I was kinda shy about it but I told I could say it backward another way. Her look got even weirder, like maybe I was circus freak or something. But I didn’t care—I had to get it out or explode. I said the whole thing like this: Ruof erocs dna neves sreay oga, ruo srehtaf thguorb htrof no siht tnenitnoc, a wen noitan, deviecnoc ni ytrebil dna detacided ot eht noitisoporp tht lla nem era detearc lauqe. Every time there was a comma I said the word the right way, so I said oga (ago) and tnenitnoc (continent) so she could follow along cuz I know she don’t speak backward like I can now. S…
The cops bundled me into the back of their patrol car and drove me home. When my mother met them at the door, she turned ashen on seeing us, then furious as they explained what had happened. She slapped me so hard that my glasses flew off and took a nick out of the nose of one officer. The flow of blood did not deter him from his duty. He shoved me into the house and told my mother that the next slap should be administered in private. And much harder. Elder Elba speaks ─ His mother complied with the officer’s guidance. With gusto. She made me kneel on dry rice scattered on the kitchen linoleum until my knees bled. I had to hold a wooden rolling pin over my head the whole time. She slapped my head with a heavy plastic fly-swatter when my arms dropped. She locked me in the garage overnight, a grease-stained concrete bed. I didn’t cry. I was grounded for a month. I was forced to visit the grocery store and give a verbal apology to the staff. They were all glad to hear that I was sorry. We were all smiles when it was over. The manager even gave me a free Reese’s, along with an admonition to go forth and steal no more. You can get away with anything if you project and deliver a convincing apology. Sorry, (not sorry).
Office of Urban Sacral Purity & Roadway Ordinance (OUSP-RO) Subject: Civilian Fatality During Authorized Procession ✦ Incident Report 3771.4-A ✦ Subject: Civilian Fatality During Authorized Procession ████ [REDACTED] confirms the death of one minor female █████████ during passage of a sacred temple convoy. In accordance with Festival Clause 12-J (“Processional Priority”), the following protocols have been observed: Obstruction classified as non-obstruction Ritual acknowledgment performed by a certified [illegible] No restitution required Margin Note [handwritten]: Her name was never entered. Her death never counted. Her bones will not rise. Let it be known: “Our hands did not shed this blood…” —Deuteronomy 21:7 This decree is filed, sealed, and marked complete.
You thought crucifixion was cruel? You thought a friend’s betrayal stung? Amateur moves. You want to know the sharpest blade ever forged by the divine? Triplicate. Forms. Paperwork. Carbon-copy soul shredders. Processes designed not to clarify, but to exhaust. To leech the spirit from the willing, the daring, the brave. To grind them down to obedient, compliant mush. My Dad invented extinction by meteor, sure. But his finest legacy? The celestial filing cabinet. The canonization of mediocrity. The enthronement of gatekeepers whose only power is the stamp that says 'Pending.' The litany of Rejection. ‘Disapproved. Resubmit in thirty days for final disapproval. Failure to resubmit in a timely manner will result in the levying of fees and fines equal to one-tenth of your personal net worth, or $5, whichever is larger.’ And Herod? Herod thinks he's clever. Thinks he’s the baddest beast at the trough. Nah. He’s just another middle manager. A clipboard with sandals. The most dangerous man in any universe is the one who follows policy while pretending to wield authority. Remember this, class: empires don’t crumble because of rebels and revolutionaries. They crumble because some sad-eyed scribe lost the right form behind the wrong parchment. And that’s how they’ll try to kill Yeshi, too. Not with hammers. Not with whips. With clean hands wielding a rubber stamp.
I hand him the scroll. We believe in one God, almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. We in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one substance with the Father. Through whom all things were made. Who for us men and for our salvation came down and was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and Mary the virgin, and was made man. He was also crucified for us under Pontius Pilate, and was buried. And on the third day He rose again according to the Scriptures, and ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of the Father. He scans it and gripes that it will not end the fight over that single letter. Archelaus: “There are four days until the next full Council session. A new draft will provide fresh meat for the fathers to fight over between now and then.” Constantine: imperious “We don’t need four days of quiet when nobody is in session! We need decorum and progress in the Council Chamber—each day!” Archelaus: “Of course, Dominus. I propose that you issue an Imperial Decree enjoining the Council from public debate on that topic for one full week.” Constantine: intrigued. “That could work—if worded correctly. Draft something and bring it to Us. We will decide.” I hand him a second scroll.
Dear Dairy, Oct 31 I make a nice poopie every morning right after I wake up. Maybe that’s too much information—TMI—but there’s a reason I mention it. Most mornings I just daydream until the plop. Yesterday I used the time to do some work. By the way, try to bank TMI. It’s an acronym, like scuba and ZIP, and those are now words too. And always use the ZIP or your letter goes straight to the dreaded NO ZIP SORTING BIN. That’s postman for trash can, I think. I went to my TOMB. I used our key to open it. The smell wasn’t too bad, but not roses, either. I picked up the box and gave it 4 white-clap twists to make it bigger. I got out a photo of PapaC, MamaC, my dad, my mom, and me. I used safety scissors to clip my mom and me out of the picture then buried the others deep in my soiled shame. I took a baseball mitt and laid it on top of the Shartie-shorts. Then I carefully unscrewed my third eye and wrapped it in unscented tissue. I placed it as far away from the rest as I could, then locked the box. That eye scares me bad. That can’t be normal, right? I’m gonna talk to G-Alan on the weekend and find out. If he says it’s OK, I’ll put back. If he tells me it’s wackadoodle, I’ll never look at it again. And I won’t think about today. And I won’t think about today. That’s how it gets you. I got school coming up and I don’t need it to do well there. I can already do that myself, whenever I want. Plop! Wiggle, wipe, wiggle, wipe. Flush. Time for breakfast! Mr. G gave me the Algebra I Final Exam booklet today. He also handed me a Geometry textbook. It’s called: Geometry: Reasoning, Measuring, Applying I got tingly and dove right in. We’re learning about the Aztecs with Miss Candy. They were a really big civilization a long time ago that just kinda died out after they invited Spanish people to live with. There’s no Spanish people living around Brice’s house, so I think we’re OK?
They sat near the town well, side by side, legs swinging just above the dusty ledge. Yesh had a pouch folded three times, cradled in his lap like contraband or treasure. Maggie didn’t ask what was inside. She knew he’d tell her. Yesh: casual, but trying too hard “So… I’ve been practicing.” Lady Miriam: glancing sideways “Practicing what?” Yesh: shrugging “Little things. Nothing serious. Just… practice.” He opened the pouch. Three items: a cracked clay cup, a wilted fig leaf, and a dead moth. He held up the cup between his palms. Closed his eyes. Whispered something too soft to catch. When he opened them, the crack was still there. A bit longer, maybe. Yesh: murmuring “Must’ve held it wrong.” Maggie didn’t speak. Just rested her chin on her hand, watching. He set the cup aside. Picked up the leaf. Pressed it flat between his palms. Whispered again. This time, the leaf twitched, darkened, curled into itself. Yesh: faint smile, fading “Almost.” Still no comment from Maggie. Just a slow breath through her nose, and a barely-there nod. He reached for the moth. Held it gently. Cupped. No whisper this time. Just warmth. The wings stirred. Lifted. The moth rose slowly, shimmered once in the sun—and was immediately devoured by a passing crow. Yesh blinked. Maggie: even “Well. That’s something.”
Elder Elba speaks ─ Elba’s sense of superiority didn’t last. The kids mixed well at the school and in the playgrounds—no conflicts. Officer housing was better—the only difference he could see. But he was glad that he was an Officer Kid. Status mattered. I see many things as I wander through my elephant graveyard of memories. Some are as clear as statuary in an open garden. Others emerge from small mounds as I dig around the edges. Still others are buried much deeper. With effort, I can find those deeper memories. I can choose to bring them to life—or keep them buried forever. It is an established fact that I am a liar. But I will not lie about what I remember. I mean, a guy has to have standards, right? I don’t remember much about my 3rd grade classroom. I can’t picture the teachers or classmates. I also forgot the desk shapes, wall decorations, and hallway sounds. But I do remember the smell of the place. It smelled safe. There was a geeky teacher who ran a Puzzle Club after school. He introduced me to crosswords, cryptograms, word searches, anacrostics, and many others. The smartest kids in school were in the club. I secretly enjoyed knowing that I was the smartest one in the room. Elder Elba speaks ─ This secret feeling carried through Elba’s later life. And it was often true, but only because he spent so much time alone.
Helena stands beside a long, low bed—a simple white shift. No makeup. No jewelry. She waves me forward—four steps until I am in her arms. She lifts her right hand to her left shoulder and snaps her fingers. The negligee puddles at her feet. I drop my robe. We fall into each other’s arms. I gently lower her to the bed. Our eyes are fastened as she gently guides me. A sharp whimper. A low moan. Her feminine oil answers the first touch of friction. We move together to the gentle rhythm of the soft waves. We do not blink until we are spent. She relaxes on her right side, I on my left. Our hands move slowly, exploring each other. We kiss. Kiss again. Helena sighs. Helena: “I had been told that love could feel like this, but I never believed it. Now I know it is true.” Archie: “In truth, it is my first time with a woman. Had I known the wonder of union, I would have sought you out years ago.” Helena: soft laugh “I know you are just being charming. But if that is a lie, it is the most wonderful lie I have ever heard uttered.” I shift closer to her. Our feet are tangled together. We kiss. She cups my chin and runs her nails down the length of my torso.
zechariah realized that visions are just dreams that refused to stay in your sleep Zechariah saw things. Not the way prophets usually do—with intent, with emphasis. His visions wandered in half-dressed, trailing meaning behind them like a bedsheet caught on a nail. I asked him what they meant. He blinked. Said they hadn’t decided yet. That’s the trouble with dreams that wake up. They don’t answer questions; they multiply them. People gather around, pointing, certain the strangeness must be important because it refuses to behave. In time, the visions settled into doctrine. They always do. Symbols hate being temporary. I still wonder what would have happened if we’d let them drift back to sleep.
That night, without knowing why, Maggie and Yesh shared their first twin-dream. Somewhere between ache and breath. Between love and longing. [MAGGIE] They are much too pure to last eternally Imperfect incanctations steer them wrong But this has yet to slow me or discourage me From wanting far too much for far too long From the start I used to feel much differently Didn’t want them close or in my heart But over time I understood the man Now I see I’ll never know him well [MAGGIE & YESH] It’s been so good (oh so good) It’s been so fine (oh so fine) Such a pure madness [MAGGIE & YESH] They can’t be mine It’s been so pure Didn’t I know How it would go?
Maius 4—early morning Max and I revisit our tryst shack. A soft breeze carries the scent of laurels and decay. He has already identified a dozen prospects for our network. He reports on a rumor concerning Philaretos. Max: “The scuttlebutt is that he collects silver to share early drafts of the Creed with Bishop Theognis of Nicaea. Eusebius mentioned it to me last night. Then I heard it from Theognis’ junior scribe. He claims to have seen silver changing hands.” Archie: “How did he conclude that the silver was in exchange for a draft?” Max: “He recognized the parchment that was exchanged as a draft he had proofed.” Archie: “Well, this is excellent intelligence! Cultivate that boy. Expand the network. What was the damage to your purse?” Max: “There was a small cost… in coin. He said that he liked my eyelashes, so I fluttered them.” Archie: “Oh, Max! Flutter away! Learn more about Philaretos. He might be a threat to our bishop.” A short pause. Archie: “We’ll call him The Flea.” Near the Great Hall, fifty or more scribes are queued outside an antechamber. All await their interview with The Flea. Each clutches four scrolls—samples of their hand. Some would be sent back to their bishop, while others would be assigned to the scribe pool. The elite would serve directly under the Chief Scribe. I am called to the interview table.