Mild Shenanigans, the E-Zine for May 15, 2024
V4, I25
Well, here we are. We have entered this newsletter’s Shenanigans Era and, like certain other famous creative people who have ERAS, this Era shall shine with brightness and sassiness, shadow monsters, giant cloud turtles, and scurrilous sorcerers.
That is what Tay-Tay is doing, right? Sorcerers? Panicky social media influencers? That sort of thing? My…blade?
Anywhooo…look at this!
I have a couple things to touch up, such as an About page that explains the every-other-week nature of our little place here yet doesn’t bore people to tears. The graphics are of the “this is what I’m able to do” sort, based on a superlative piece of art by my close amiga Rachael Sinclair. It might just stick around forever, though, because it captures what I feel in my heart about this newsletter. I want exploration. I want hidden wonders in front and behind. I want SO MANY SHENANIGANS!
And shenanigans we shall have.
This week, I’ve set you up nicely with some poems that came to me through regular interactions with the regular world. See, most of what I write doesn’t come from “fantastic” thoughts. That is, I don’t seek out creepiness or fantasy, even in my creepy or fantasy poems. I pay attention to what’s around me and let that part of me we’d call my inner child play with it. What comes out is usually fun or interesting. Sometimes it’s darned clever, like the last poem and the story.
Anyhow, dig in. There’s a whole buffet right there for you! Cool? Cool1.
Poems
Stories
What I Saw This Afternoon When I Looked Up
I saw a cloud today, shaped like a turtle (though it could have been the other way around). It swam across the sky. Fluffed head dark with thunder Tilted in my direction. It gazed down at minuscule me, Ice-blue eye rimmed with cirrus lashes, and winked. I watched it push a grey-white fin through The jet stream current, wide above. It obliterated An Olympian cloud peak, sending shattered debris Racing down immense slopes to bury a surprised Pantheon of gods out on a ski vacation.
How To Get World Peace, Probably
(Photo Credit: congerdesign on Pixabay)
I think we might solve many, if not every single one, Of life’s greatest problems (or at least the problems we Humans have with other humans) If we could meet regularly over pancakes and coffee. Once every couple of weeks ought to be about right. We don’t want to clog up everyone’s busy schedules. Everyone is so busy, aren’t they? Too busy making more problems Too busy being too busy. Too busy not eating pancakes. The first thing we’d have to work out, and this is important, Is which syrup flavors we will have on the broad table. We won’t have room for all of them. Then we will sort out who takes cream and sugar in their coffee And who is clearly a barbarian.
Apocalypse, Not Yet
When the end of the world finally came No one would believe it was here Despite the onslaught of status changes and Selfies with backgrounds full of raining fish, Ravenous locusts, the poisonous Wormwood. Social media platforms groaned under the strain Safety teams issued millions of warnings. “Missing Context!” “Extremist Content!” The weight of the throttles shattered their hands. Blue-check profiles scattered and screamed Ratioed into an unforgiving abyss Immolated by their own hot takes Fill-ins handled their shows that day. Meanwhile, in Lexington and Lafayette, San Diego and Sioux Falls, life did not end. Detroit and Dallas, Tucson and Tazewell Continued. The world spun, heedless Of the apocalypse that raged beyond The thin border of glass and passcode. No one saw locusts or streams of blood. No one stepped lightly around drifts of cod. And certainly no one, anywhere, at all Missed the television talking heads Who took a few days off “for their health”.
The Words on the Wall
Bentham opened the old book to the thirteenth page and began to read the incantation in a voice hoarse with age. Syllables not spoken in centuries filled the air with blasphemies so thick they nearly took tangible form. The man he hired in Old London to carry his baggage shrieked and fell to the ground, his hands pressed hard over his ears. As he read, his voice gained strength. He traced each word, inked in blood and sealed in pain, with his finger as he read them. They rang in the air like discordant bells struck a great distance away. The air took on a smell of foulness as if a door to a vast, dank mausoleum had cracked open. On the wall in front of him, the strange symbols carved into the living rock began to shift and writhe. As he progressed down the page, the symbols began to form words that glowed a faint sickening purple. From behind him, Bentham heard a tortured gurgling sound. The hireling, he supposed, had succumbed to the overwhelming pressure of madness. The man was weak. Expendable. He didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except finishing the incantation that revealed the ancient words on the wall. With a final word that sounded like a death rattle, Bentham gazed upon the phrase with undisguised avarice. His brow furrowed as he read the phrase and asked a single question to the thousand chittering shadows that seemed to laugh at his confusion. “What in the hell is Ovaltine?”
No footnotes in this issue.