The Adventures of Cutstrand Hume

Not more than a week after my friend Mr. Hume and I had solved the case of the vanishing haberdashery, we received a call. A young lady, blonde and frail, entered our apartments. She seemed uneasy, though most people coming to see Hume do. I offered her a seat and fetched Hume from the water closet, where he had been playing with some set of chemicals or another. Calm as ever, he sauntered out to meet our guest.

"Good morning to you, Miss Ashberry. I am so sorry for your loss, but I am afraid that Mister Crosby, whom you were having an affair with, really did commit suicide and was not, as you suspect, murdered."

As if electrocuted, the woman leaped from her chair and stood stiff as a board. "How dare you spy on me, or, or, read my mind or whatever it is that you have done!"

"I meant no offense. Believe me, all that I have said, I gathered from seeing you here. No witchcraft or spying was involved."

She seemed to relax slightly, but eyed my friend warily. I decided to intervene.

"Miss, he really did deduce it all. I have lived with him for three years and never cease to marvel at his powers of observation," I soothed, enough that she took a seat again.

"Alright, Mr. Hume. I would like an explanation though. How did you come to all of those conclusions?"

"Wadsworth here knows my methods. Surely you could cast a bit of light on how I came to know so much?" He turned to me with a patient smile.

"Well, I, uh, I see that she has a somewhat distinctive ring on, but not a wedding ring. Perhaps, you recognized the crest."

"I did indeed. That was how I knew that she was of the Ashberry family, and, as any good detective, I have studied all of the well known families of London and knew that the Ashberry family had a daughter about your age and carried the sort of signet inscribed on your ring. As to your relationship with Mister Crosby, you have the slightest scent of Maquis, a plant native to Morocco. In passing Mister Crosby once a month ago, I noticed a sunburn implying a trip out of the country. He also walked with a tenser gate than I had scene before, implying that he had just come from a dangerous locale. Therefore, the combination of this rare odor and his strange behavior, not to mention the mud on your shoes specific to his neighborhood of London come together to clearly indicate that you had some sort of dealings with him. The darkness of your dress, unsuited to a lady of your complexion suggests that you have taken upon yourself to indicate grief for his passing, but you did not want your emotions made public, hence the fact that your dress is not purely black. The most probable explanation is that you two were lovers, but given his married status could not have this known. I, naturally, read about his untimely death and several details jumped out at me. First, he is a father of two young girls named Mary and Trista. Mary, the elder, has a name associated with the virgin Mary and stars. Trista, on the other hand, had its origins in the story of a tragic lover from Celtic lore. Clearly, this indicates a decline in either his wife's happiness or his own. Having recently returned from Morocco, he would have clear reasons to become depressed, as the culture and climate shock of leaving and returning could unbalance even the strongest of men. However, the clearest evidence of his committing suicide is that the same distinctive gravel lodged in her left shoe was present outside the office of Dr. Mendel's office, where persons go for psychiatric assistance. It was in the footprint made by a shoe the exact size of Mister Crosby, which I calculated in passing. The age of the footprint matched the date of his death, and therefore implies strongly that he was in an unstable mental state, further evidenced by the erratic footprint pattern in the soil."

"So as you see, it was elementary, my dear Watson."

The Awesomeness of Elsewhere

Elsewhere, the sun floats atop the ocean, bobbing with each wave and slipping through fisherman's fingers like dazzling lemonade.

Elsewhere, spoons grow on bushes, forks bloom from the ground, and knives clink on trees. People mine for food stuffs which are forged into meals.

Elsewhere, the air freezes into hovering planes of ice, which shatter as men walk through them, but with care can support one's weight, allowing people to slide across the sky.

Elsewhere, cats speak through tail twitches and audible apathy, sharing their cunning only with those incapable of employing it.

Elsewhere, people can move in slow-motion and conjure dramatic music at will.

Elsewhere, people dream of here.

Thank you, Rod Sterling

There is a high school beyond that which is known to children. It is a school as vast as a square quarter mile and as timeless as Dr. Kiely. It is the middle ground between public and private, between science and mathematics, and it lies between the pit of man's laziness and the summit of his knowledge. This the school of imagination. It is an area which we call The Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy.

Synaesthesia

Red has so much variety. It runs the gamut from moist to salty, sweet to cutting, plush to fiery.

Orange keeps mostly to one track. It can radiate warmth, but sometimes on the radioactive scale. Alarms and sirens often texture it roughly, but it can also sing like peach fuzz.

Yellow, on the other hand, has quite a limited range. It nearly always tastes like sunlight or sounds like a slip-and-slide.

Green spreads from the cool leaves of middle earth to the briny seas of the little mermaid to the sibilant hissings of house Slytherin.

Blue smacks of rain, no matter what hue. However, that rain varies from warm to sharp, quiet to acrid.

Purple wears the crown. It never tastes too noisy or smells too strongly of fluffiness. No matter the form, it always looks beautiful.

Fog

Fog, the fallen cloud, envelopes the world everywhere around me, yet never touches me. Oppressive and neglectful at once, it weighs down upon me intangibly. The demonic haze provokes me with tastes of itself. The strokes of clammy mists against my neck, the silence playing in my ears, the seemingly solid wall of white that fades into oblivion with every step towards it. It torments me, chills me, and grips me. It teases me to the brink of reason, where, on the other side of that vaporous veil lurk pleasure, pain, and power. An ecstasy of horror, incomprehensible force, or am I the being that others fear? I am bound to the untouchable and the unknowable.

Honor!!!!

Amy leaned over

her friend Jessica's homework.

"That's the wrong answer."

"How can it be wrong?"

Jessica snapped in response,

"I've checked it five times."

"It could be scalene.

You assumed isosceles."

Amy said, shrugging.

"How do you solve that?!"

Jessica moaned, "I can't do

this geometry!"

"You might not have to.

Why not challenge the teacher?"

Amy suggested.

"What are you saying?"

Jessica asked, cautiously.

She studied Amy.

"You're a good student.

You've always had perfect grades.

A B would shame you.

"What gives him that right?

Why let Dr. Prinz shame you?

Fight for your honor!"

Jessica recoiled.

"I couldn't fight a baby.

How could I hit prince?"

"That's not a problem.

Pens beat the sword anyway.

Just have a write-off."

Jessica brightened.

"I'll demand a Haiku-off

to save my honor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Fluffy Ball

There once was a ball that was fluffy
whose manner was haughty and stuffy.
'Though as big as a boulder,
he sat on my shoulder.
When I pushed it off, it got huffy.

Star Fruit: The Musical

      Cara M. Bola never expected to make something of herself. However, when Holly Wood producer Thomas Ato hears her sing, he offers her the opportunity to go on the big screen. However, as a poor girl from a small family tree, she must hold her own against sour, and occasionally rotten big shots like Walter Mellon and Roz Barry.

Sleepers: The Awakening

Sergey led Nikola down back stairwells and service hallways to reach a lower basement. Instinctively, Sergey increased the grandeur of his manner to compensate for the plainness of the passages, restoring the annoying equilibrium. However, his pomposity declined when they reached a seemingly simple door, requiring both punch code and finger print to open.

"Brace yourself, it's cold," Sergey said. The cold was the last thing on Nikola's mind.

Row upon row of men in glass jars loomed before him. Each jar stood upon a metal dais crowded with dials, knobs, and buttons of every sort. Lights from the dais shined upwards, illuminating the men from below, while a tether led from the men's ankles to inside the dais itself. Some form of liquid filled the jars nearly to the top, allowing the men to float neutrally buoyant in their glass shells, but they were by no means still. The tethers tugged on the passive bodies, jerking them about until they crashed against the jar walls. In the darkness, the dais lights threw ghastly shadows over the macabre mannequins, dancing to the thumping of their flailing limbs and the swishing of their liquid stages.

"Ivanoff, what is this?" Nikola gasped, unable to mask his awe.

"This," Sergey indicated, with a theatrical sweep of the arm, "is my army of sleeping children, forty in all. They are all mine, though their mothers vary. I have been growing them for twenty eight years now, ever since I made my second fortune."

"But, why? If they aren't dead from these conditions, they are mentally infants, with the strength to match. Why would you create them?" And how? Nikola puzzled, you couldn't have done this yourself. Who helped you?

"Look closer. The liquid is highly aerated, and my children wear nose plugs that act as gills for them. They receive nutrients from a leg IV. See it, running from the tether up to their thighs? All the equipment uses self sizing technology, so we never need to change it. As for education, look at the speakers in the dais. I've written everything out, from infancy to their current age, and had it adjusted for the liquid they float in. You see, they are not technically sleeping. They are in induced comas, in which they can hear everything around them. Muscles, I have no solution for, but the tether stresses the bones to keep a healthy level of bone mass on them. When they awaken, they will need rehab, but not nearly as much."

"A politician through and through. How do you manage to answer my implied questions without answering the stated one? Why?"

"Because they are like me. Once they have woken and recovered their strength, I can place them in key positions around the globe. I have the connections to falsify childhoods and families, and each one has learned a different language. Then, with the seeds planted, I can cultivate the world I described, one where those who would, can reach greatness. The details, I'm sure, would bore you, but surely, you see the value of what I offer."

"And this grand scheme requires me? It's flattering, but I don't quite see where I fit in." As Nikola's composure returned, it occurred to him that the room really was quite cold.

"I had a scientist in my employment. He made all of this possible, a genius of a man. Unfortunately, he willingly passed away, leaving me and my children in a difficult position. He left instructions for their care, but I lack the education and the time to make sense of it. That is where you fit in. I need to wake them, tomorrow if possible, and you are the only man I can trust for such a delicate matter."

For several moments, Nikola stood frozen, absorbing the information and implications of the situation. At last, he responded, replying in a flat, dead voice.

"We despise one another. I could turn away right now and report this incident. It would destroy your life."

"I could convince several friends of yours and all of my staff to testify that you had never come to my house and that you are an unstable alcoholic, possibly schizophrenic. It would destroy your life"

"Our old stalemate. Against one another, neither can win..."

"but together, we cannot lose."

Both men stared at the rows of dancing bodies. Sergey broke the silence.

"I'll give you the directions left by my late employee."

"I look forward to it."

The men left the sci-fi nursery without another word. The collection of sleepers continued to float and swirl in the half darkness, when a quiet pop and unimpressive spark came from one of the forty jars. Half an hour later, the man within awoke to a nightmare. Happy birthday, Sergey Jr. XXIII.

Sleepers: The Dream

Nikola Yuran waited in a gilded entrance room. The architect had slathered the room with ornaments to the point that its occupants drowned in them. Nikola sneered at the room and silently cursed its owner for making him wait there.

At long last, a servant, dressed in a comparatively plain black uniform, came to escort Nikola to his employer. He led him down equally baroque corridors until one ended in a pair of engraved mahogany doors, which the servant opened for Nikola and closed softly behind him. The room centered around a fireplace at least four feet tall and six across. A dog house worth of logs crackled and popped heartily within it. However, a subtly disguised heating vent on the left wall told Nikola that the fire was for show only. A pair of chairs sat comfortably arranged before the heath.

Before he could take in the rest of the room, his host stepped out of a side chamber, where he had doubtlessly secreted himself purely to make an entrance.

"Ah, Nikola Yuran. How good of you to come. Please, take a seat," he proclaimed, indicating the far chair.

"Sergey Ivanoff, I had no idea how much you cared for me. If, as they say, good things come to those who wait, you've forced quite a collection upon me tonight," Irony mixed disconcertingly with a wolfish grin as Nikola moved to the chair not offered to him. His grin spread into a smile at the flicker of annoyance in Sergey's face. However, Sergey suppressed the feeling and took on a mantle of dignity as he took the rejected seat.

"I am sorry to here you were kept waiting." 

Passive voice, Nikola thought, he deflects blame on instinct.

"I can, of course, trust you to keep all matters discussed from this point on strictly between ourselves," Sergey stated, implying a question with the slightest raise of an eyebrow.

"If you could not, you would not have asked for me. However, I can only keep a secret that I know, and your message was rather vague. 'Come to my house to be part of something great' I believe was the exact phrasing," Nikola replied, voice dry and disinterested as always.

"Sir, you and I have always had an understanding. Whatever else we think of one another, I can respect your science and you can respect my politics. We are both skilled, and unless I very much misjudge your character, we are both ambitious." Sergey observed Nikola, but he betrayed nothing. That robot.

"Men have grown fearful of greatness. No one attempts to expand his power beyond the borders carved out by rulers who dared to fight. A scientist cannot test questions that the mob public considers inhumane. We aim for mediocrity, because it is cheap compared to the sacrifices needed for glory. I never attempted to challenge this before, for I lacked the tools. Now, however, I have almost everything I need."

Nikola watched the wild light in Sergey's eyes warily. His old acquaintance had slipped dangerously close to exposing uncensored emotions. Whatever could pull his mask away warranted caution.

"What do you still need?" Nikola asked, knowing what the reply would be.

"You."

Fiction

Wisps of lilac smoke curled up through crystalline branches. The fire from which the smoke issued had all but died away, just as the first sun stretched its head above the horizon. Half rainbows of red, orange, and yellow scattered through the supersaturated sky. The amethyst trees reflected the sunrise in a thousand broken shards, like heat-less flames perched on every twig. With each breath of wind, the trees chimed against one another, and the occasional glass bird gave out a song like playing upon wineglass rims. Before long, the second sun showed its face and the shadows criss-crossed over the forest floor. Light and darkness intertwined to trick and dazzle the eye.

This place is real, because the idea is real. I have made a beautiful thing possible through thought, and no one can take that away.

The Artist

Click. The shutter fluttered and an image of Amy's mother appeared on the screen of her new digital camera. In it, her mother attempted to catch a few dirty towels tossed from the second story balcony to join the rest of the laundry. Amy had captured her in a moment of grace, balanced with a leg extended behind her and an arm elongated in front as if in an arabesque. If nothing else, Amy knew how to take a picture, despite only having five years on this earth.

Satisfied with her work, she skipped off to the backyard to study the grass through her camera. While lying prone to capture a bead of dew, she noticed something just out of focus through the lens. She crawled forward and saw It nestled in among a few dandelions. She observed It for a moment, looked about for a possible source of Its presence on the lawn, and then looked back perplexed. However, she shortly turned her attention back to the dew on the grass. Amy had decided that anything so unmemorable would make a lousy photograph.

The Academic

Herald had learned to sleep during the day. He could go to the library, pretend to read a book, and doze off in a corner. For eight hours he stayed warm and safe from winter. Staff rarely kicked him out as long as he washed the grime from his hands and face to look more respectable. By night, he kept moving to stay warm and alive. He also visited the garbage bins at their fullest and freshest.. Food and clothes worth taking would be at the top of the pile and only slightly decayed. He often visited hospital bins, where doctors and nurses regularly disposed of old scrubs. Once clothed and fed, he wandered the streets, contemplating complex analysis, number theory, and the occasional topology problem.

Previously, as a respected mathematics professor, life had been so cyclical. He quoted facts to his students that his teachers had quoted to him, because their teachers had quoted to them, and his students would likely quote them to the next generation of students simply to continue the cycle. He rendered services to the university in exchange for money that kept him out of poverty so that he could render services to the university in exchange for money that kept him out of poverty.

Now, he lived on the cutting edge of survival. He stayed one step ahead of death through intelligence and grit. Best of all, he lived entirely for himself. No obligations, personal or professional, interfered with his desires. No distractions, once he satisfied his bodily needs, tugged at his thoughts. No cycles, no self sustaining, but purposeless systems. He existed only for the challenge that his mind and body presented.

Today, he broke that rule, for the hospital dumpster had presented its own challenge. Someone had hefted It in to the bin, where It made a large depression in the regular trash. Herald grasped It in both hands and lugged It out onto the snow, along with a shower of wrappers and used tissues. He had spent thirty four years of his life understanding patterns, yet could find no pattern in It. It slipped away from his understanding like a floating beach ball, rolling away as he tried to approach it.

Herald glanced around him with all the furtiveness of a rat. No one was in sight, but as he turned back to his find, he could not recall what It looked like, or even Its size. Entranced, he slipped It easily into a pocket and retreated to an alley he knew lay in the light of a street lamp. There, he crouched and studied It. As the hours ticked by, he turned it over again and again in his hands and mind. With every slight interruption, he would loose the tenuous certainty he had accumulated about It and had to start again.
Then, a thought rushed over him so fiercely, his stomach knotted and lifted to the point he could have used it as a bow tie.


I've dedicated my life to death. I have severed all ties that would make my passing matter to the world. Mathematics itself is the purest form of death, the passionless oblivion we fill with our own unprovable ideas. I am a wraith, and I wanted this.


Herbert wept, then slept, then met his fate in the cold of a winter night.

The Athlete

The hospital room's florescent lights flickered ominously before Karl Ogden's unblinking stare. His withered skin sagged over sharp cheekbones and a prominent chin. If he had flesh between the skull and skin, he might have been handsome, but time and illness had stripped that away. The muscles he had once prized had also wasted away until he could barely walk without a cane, and had nowhere to go anyway. For entertainment, he depended upon a stop watch and the dancing lights above him.

After an eternity of staring, he finally blinked tears away from his burning eyes. The stop watch stopped, and he looked proudly at the five minutes and thirty-five seconds displayed. He had broken his old record by twenty seconds. As he turned to grab a glass of water from the bedside table, he noticed It. It lay behind his glasses, magnified into conspicuousness by the lenses. What was It? Karl picked It up, ran his pruned fingertips across Its surface, looked for an explanation. However, he could not understand what It was or how It entered his room. Confused, he buzzed for a nurse, but in doing so, took his eyes off of It for a moment. When he looked back, he was puzzled to find It in his hand. What was It? He scanned it with a curious eye until the nurse arrived.

"Mr. Ogden? What did you need?" the nurse asked crisply. 

"Oh yes, I was wondering where this came from," he said absently, eyes trained continually on It.

"I've never seen it before. What is it?" As she came closer, Karl turned his gaze to her.

"I have no idea. In fact, I cannot really recall what it looks like. That is, well," his eyes flitted back down to It, "I can see it and remember that I looked at something in my hand just a moment before, but, I don't seem capable of keeping the image in my mind."

The nurse peered queerly at him. Alzheimer's, she thought to herself. However, as she thought this, she found herself incapable of remembering what he had forgotten. A slight furrow appeared between her brows, and she backed towards the door.

"Would you like anything else?"

"Could you ask if anyone else knows where it came from?"

"Where what came from?"

"What? Uh, don't worry about whatever it is." Karl resumed staring at It as the nurse hurried out of the strange encounter.

After an hour of studying It, Karl felt the urge to pitch. He had not pitched for decades, not since the arthritis kicked in. However, the burning need to pitch It pulsed through him. In fact, he not only needed to, he knew somewhere that he could. The pain evaporated. His limbs felt phantom muscles flexing. Every misty thought condensed and fell out of his mind, making his focus clear and sharp. Involuntarily, he stood, he coiled into position, and let loose with every shred of his 130 pound frame. It shot through the air, across the room, down the hallway, and impacted the opposite wall hard enough to crack drywall.

Karl fell back onto the bed and laughed as he went into cardiac arrest. Nurses and doctors rushed in, a crash cart wheeled towards him, but he did not care. It felt so good to pitch again. When it came time, the nurse pulled the sheets over a helplessly happy face.

Prelude

It came from the place between here and there, just after then, but before now. It had many good intentions that It fully intended to ignore and a clear purpose of doing something. Unlike the majority of objects, which willingly leave copies of themselves in people's memories, It never left impressions of Itself behind. Instead, It passed from one hand of its choosing to another, no one recalling that they had ever possessed It. In reality, no one ever has. It, however, has possessed hundreds of humans, always in the same pattern: Athlete, Academic, Artist. Then, on It moves to the next trinity. Perhaps It has done this forever, and perhaps It never actually existed. Either way, Its past possessions have stories to tell.

Useful

There are so many wonderful uses for a rifle. You could use it as a doorstop. You could store peanuts in the cartridge. In a pinch, you could tenderize your meat with its stock. As a paperweight, it excels. Provided you have a scope, it can help you bird watch. A flower in the barrel would brighten any room.


Of course, not all objects have such pleasant uses. For example, you will never find a teacup in my house.

Shelter in Place

one two, hide in loo

three four,  shut the door

five six, dead lock clicks

seven eight, hush and wait

nine ten, not again

Interrogation

A single florescent light turned on above Mr. Little's head. Blinking in the sudden brightness, he tried to get his bearings. Duct tape wrapped around his chest and pinned him to a wooden chair. Apart from his seat, the room appeared devoid of furniture.

However, the room was not empty. A man, eyes obscured by sunglasses, stood before Little, arms crossed. Little got the sinking feeling that he was not there for a friendly get together.

"Well, well, well. We finally have our hands on you. I admit, you gave us quite a run. It wasn't until we found and questioned your companions, Penny and Drake, that we were able to track you down. It has not endeared you to anyone at the Federation Of Xenophiles, so it would be in your best interest to cooperate."

Little and the FOX agent stared at each other in silence for several seconds before he continued.

"I know that you witnessed a UFO falling to earth. When you tried to show your discover to friends, it was no longer there. Our people had already removed it. You started to keep an eye on the sky, didn't you?"

Silence

"You even enlisted the help of some other believers, Penny, Drake, and a few using...creative pseudonyms. We have papers. We have code phrases such as 'The sky is falling.' There is no denying your part in all of this. Answer one question and I will consider letting you walk away from this alive."

Silence

The FOX agent leaped forward, gripping the arms of Little's chair. 

"Did you manage to tell the king!?"

Super

Kat stopped in her tracks while returning to her train seat. What was this...presence at her side? She had always felt the world differently, but never like this. It took her breath away. As well as she could, she recovered and walked on, sparing only the slightest look at the man who she had felt so strongly. He appeared normal. A dark suit, complete with vest and decorative handkerchief, looked quite stylish on his slim frame. He did not seem to notice her, his head of short black hair bent over an old book. Kat did not see his face.

What did she sense from him? Intelligence, arrogance, but something entirely new eclipsed the ordinary perceptions she had of people, something dark and light and impossible to understand. She decided to risk another glance at the strange man, just a peak over her shoulder to see what he looked like. She turned her head carefully, and got a perfect view of his face grinning straight back at her.

Then night slid over her and everything disappeared from view. Her second sight, if one could call it that, flooded with him and her. She could sense nothing else, not even the train around her. For the first time in her life, Kat was lost.

"Hello there," the voice sounded from nothingness.

"Where am I? Who are you? What the heck is going on?" Kat shouted back, spinning on her heel in the darkness in the vain hope of seeing something. She spun back again to see the man standing calmly in front of her, still grinning unbearably. He had to be lit somehow, for she could plainly see him, yet the room around her did not appear any more visible.

"Well aren't you demanding. It is a very dangerous thing to presume the right to know anything. But, this conversation would not be very productive if I didn't tell you, and I don't waste my time." As he spoke, he sauntered slowly closer, hands clasped casually behind his back.

"Where are you? On the train, physically speaking. Mentally, you are in my own little world."

"Just what does that mean?" Kat asked angrily.

"I replace the sensory input you receive from your body with my own information and reroute the orders you send to muscles into the little avatar I have created in this world." Even when speaking plainly, he tended to verbally swagger.

"Alright, so how are you doing all this?" Kat asked tight lipped.

"As to your second question," he continued, seemingly oblivious to what she said, "who am I? Hhm, I'll try to keep it simple." He stepped closer, just inches from her body, taking her measure. Kat held her ground.

"I am...a genius," he stepped around her, so near his shoulder brushed hers, "a man," the word came out thick with meaning, "and," his voice whispered in her ear, "I'm exactly like you."

She swiveled to face him, brows knit together, but he had disappeared.

"You wanted to know what is going on," his voice laughed from nowhere, "you balked as you passed me. I may be handsome, but even I rarely knock the breath from someone. I believe you have an ability that you cannot explain. Am I warm?"

Kat clamped her mouth shut, swallowing the gasp of surprise that had risen in her throat.

"Well, my dear, I'm here to tell you that you are not the only one."

Just saying...

Pocahontas

• The daughter of the tribe's chief falls in love with someone sent to look for precious metals by his wicked and greedy boss. After talking to a tree, the couple tries to prevent the destruction of the tribe, which rejects the man as an outsider at first.

Moral

• If we look past the surface, we are not so different from one another

Avatar

• The daughter of the tribe's chief falls in love with someone sent to look for precious metals by his wicked and greedy boss. After talking to a tree, the couple tries to prevent the destruction of the tribe, which rejects the man as an outsider at first.

Moral

• Humans are jerks.

Divorce Court

Judge: Bailiff, allow the plaintiff and defendant into the courtroom.

(Zeus and Hera enter the room. For the benefit of the mortals, they have taken the forms of a great bear and a regal lioness to mask their full godly might)

Judge: Now Hera, I understand you are suing your husband Zeus for infidelity.

Hera: That is correct. He has had numerous affairs and I am done putting up with it.

Zeus: Oh, come on! What about what you've put me through?!

Judge: Zeus. I am talking to your wife right now. You'll get your chance. Go on Hera. Tell me how it started.

Hera: Well, I could not give you a specific date, or woman really, but I have lists of children. Hercules, Perseus, you must have heard of them. They all turn out to be such, pathetic heroes (Her tail swishes angrily). Did you know that he had five other wives before me?

Judge: Yes, I had to sit through all of those divorce cases as well. Go on.

Hera: Well, the worst came when Zeus started seeing that Theban slut, Semele. He went to her every night., so one day I paid her a visit of my own. I told her what trouble Zeus could be, how he was too much for a mortal to handle. I tried to be nice to her, but she just grew jealous. She wanted to steal him so much she made him show her his true form, the fool. The only thing she could do well is burn up.

Zeus: Shut up! Don't talk about her that way! (He rears up on his hind legs, roaring)

Judge: Zeus, sit back down! If you speak out of turn one more time, I will have you thrown out of court.

Zeus: I am the ruler of Olympus, king of the Gods!

Judge: and I'm in charge of the court, so you will obey my rules if you know what's good for you.

Hera: You never knew how to control yourself, Zeus. Some down time in daddy's stomach might have done you some good.

Zeus: I thought you were happy that I rescued you from our dad.

Judge: Hold up, you two are siblings?

Zeus: Of course. All the gods are relatives

Judge: It isn't even legal for siblings to marry in Greece. You two can split any time you want. Now, please, split from this court. These deity cases give me a head ache.

Zeus: Oh, you may want to watch out. The last time I had migraines, I got a kid out of it.

Cultural Differences

The tour began at eight, according to the Terran clock. For Sri\\m^ and He\e^, or Paul and Aria, it was two thirds past six and Aria insisted that the tour start with a discussion of time. Jack, Alice, and Jan swam all around the village "clock" as Paul scribed explanations. Instead of a twelve hour face, it had two roughly made tubes marked zero to ten and eleven to twenty. Above each tube hung a large stone reservoir filled with sand. Only one released sand at a time, allowing workers to reset the other basic hour glass.

"What do you think of this, Jan?" Alice asked as she ran a gloved hand over the crystalline tubes, "not exactly sophisticated craftsmanship."

"You try to make a container like this without any tools that require fire to create. Then, you can complain about craftsmanship," Jan replied, not unkindly.

Soon, Aria ushered the entire group off to continue their tour. Rooms were dug into the rock ground, and had holes large enough to swim through for doors. These had stone manhole-like covers, which people displaced and replaced frequently as they went about the day's business. Everyone floated for a moment to stare at the Terramen before going about their business. Jack motioned to a sullen Paul and scratched a question out on his tablet.

Is it acceptable to stare at someone in Mer culture?

Paul thought for a moment, before replying.

We cannot help it, as we have no eyelids for blinking.

Jack started to write that that was not quite what he had meant, when they swam over the Chief's home. He had just exited to go for a swim with his pet barracuda, when he noticed the Terramen and gave them a respectful greeting. (Paul could not help noting that the Chief had never bothered taking the barracuda out for swims before). He attempted to suppress his displeasure as he translated questions and compliments. Anyone might admire a clock or a village layout, but marveling at a pet barracuda made Paul even more awkwardly aware that he was in the presence of Terramen. 

The tour continued, and for the most part, Paul was spared having to think much. Aria did the talking, and Paul could translate almost automatically. She swam over the mollusk fields and explained how they were farmed. She pointed out the workshops where men and women labored side by side to create tools. The armory came next, where bone spears and seaweed breastplates took shape. At last, she came to the cavern that all the children shared, not far from the clock where they had started.

Alice pestered Paul this time.

Why do all the children live here, instead of with a family?


This snapped Paul out of his detached state. Family? He asked Alice for an explanation, but what she told him only baffled him more. Why would anyone raise a child on their own? You would have to worry about it constantly, and you may not even do a good job of it. Besides, no one can tell what egg came from whom or whose sperm fertilized it. People aren't dolphins.

No, Paul decided, families were a decidedly bad idea that only an air breather would try.