Tag: society

Cave Paintings

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I am sitting in a cave, scared.
It is cold, damp and dark.
Every Winter solstice, the sun’s rays illuminate the wall so that the figures appear to dance.
I’ve tried it with flashlights, spotlights- but it has to be sunlight on this specific day.
I say it’s a magic spell, cast by a long-dead shaman.
Light peeks in through the cave’s entrance… and then it gets darker.
I hear thunder.
Damn. Awful time for a rainstorm.
Except… there’s no rain.
It gets darker, the figures dance, and I hear chanting.
Raising my spear, recognizing faces- I rejoin my tribe.

For Your Eyes Only

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Sometimes, a document is too secret to be marked TOP SECRET.
So they make those For Your Eyes Only.
The document only appears to the recipient. To everyone else, they don’t see anything.
Not even a sheet of paper. It’s printed using a quantum ink and paper from phase-controlled wood pulp that only activates one unique set of sensory-processing neurons.
The problem is that when an agent resigns, you don’t know it they’ve destroyed all their documents.
We could surgically remove their eyes, but that would be cruel, leaving them completely blind.
So, as a mercy, we just kill them.

After The War

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The Review Board wants to interview me today.
I go down to the new Town Hall, passing the rubble of the old one.
“Were you in the war?” they ask.
The scars and my withered hand say yes.
“I don’t remember,” I say, just as the Veteran Release Center told me to say.
A doctor scans my brain with a wand.
“He’s clean,” he says. “All memories gone.”
“Innocent,” the Board declares, and my ID is stamped with a black V.
Outside, a woman points at me and screams.
“BUTCHER!”
She is arrested.
Don’t resist. Reprogramming is painless.
(I think.)

Mushroom King

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We all marvel at the magnificent crown of The Mushroom King.
But how did he get his mighty crown?
Well, as all Mushroom Kings do: he rolled his head in a bucket of shit, cultivated and grew mushrooms on it, and kept them growing… and growing… and growing…
Until he had the greatest crown of all.
That’s when we named him the new Mushroom King.
As for his throne, that’s from the previous Mushroom King.
His crown grew far too large, and he sank into the shit, gone forever.
Except for his crown, for the new king to sit on.

Groceries

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I know, it’s not considered socially acceptable to eat something in the grocery store before you check out and actually buy it.
But there’s some situations where you just have to break from the norm.
I’m not talking about a free sample here and there, okay?
When I see parents let kids stick their grubby hands in the bulk bins or cracking open a soda bottle on a day when it’s not hot, that drives me mad.
And it distracts me from this boiling pot for the lobsters.
Got the butter melted yet, or do you need another cigarette lighter?

Contrived

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The police reviewed the tapes from the bank and admitted that the scene looked somewhat contrived.
Robbers were holding sheets of paper in their hands, reading their lines, while the bank teller kept prompting them every time they went off-script.
Their guns looked like toy guns. The orange tips gave them away.
When the bank teller accidentally hit the alarm switch with his knee, he kept saying “I’m sorry about that!” and helped the robbers carry two sacks of cash to the getaway car.
As we questioned him, the bank teller shouted: “I kidnapped the Lindbergh Baby!”
Crazy little twerp.

The Minister

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We are a small town on the prairie.
Not many people come here from the rest of the world.
And we really like it here, there’s not much reason to leave.
We don’t bother with televisions, the one radio station’s fine enough.
It plays the same music it has always played, over and over.
Because we grew up with it, and like it.
There’s one church we all go to every Sunday.
The minister starts at the pulpit, gives the same sermon every week.
Then we go home, step on to our recharger pads, and all shut down.
Good night.

The Middle Name

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I don’t have a middle name.
I mean, I don’t have one anymore.
I sold it to someone who didn’t have a middle name, found mine interesting, and offered me money for it.
“Why not just change your name?” I asked.
“We don’t do that in my culture,” he said. “There are only so many names available, and we compete for them. If we cannot win one, we buy it.”
He handed me a check.
There was a large number on it.
I agreed and wrote my name on it.
Then scratched out the middle name. It’s not mine anymore.

Flounce

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It all started with flouncing.
“Gathered or pleated?” asked the forum moderator for The Dressmaker’s Dummy online community portal.
Some dressmakers swore by gathered material, but others insisted that pleated was best.
That’s when the YouTube videos appeared, demonstrating one style’s superiority over the other.
Others used the opportunity to drag out dead horses to beat, deriding materials like suede and burlap, even though they were completely off-topic.
Finally, someone posted “Hitler liked gathered skirts!” and Godwin’s Law was invoked.
Everybody flamed everybody else.
The forum moderator posted a long and dramatic resignation.
I guess it ended with flouncing, too.

Troll

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Every time I need to cross the river, I look forward to crossing the troll’s bridge.
He does a fine job of keeping the bridge maintained, and has recently strengthened it for heavier cart traffic.
Commerce and trade are booming now.
Today, I’m delivering kegs to his tavern.
“More ale!” cheers the troll.
Every patron stands up and raises their flagons in respect to the host.
Hungry? His wife bakes the most excellent pies. Sometimes I come here just for the pie.
We unload the kegs and unhitch three goat from the front of the cart.
Love those goat-meat pies.