Excerpt


History
Orc culture is very ancient, stretching back to some of the earliest civilizations in the recorded era. Enormous orcish ruins can be found along major rivers and oases in the Interior Deserts of the Last Continent, and for a period they dominated civilization on the coast of the major continent, before the rise of more technologically advanced human and dwarvish civilizations.

The orc civilizations were eventually destroyed and incorporated into human and dwarven empires in the colonial era, with the orcs serving as laborers, soldiers, and one more than one occasion, rulers. Mixed with indentured human, dwarven, and elven laborers, they allowed for the massive mercantile empires that emerged around that time. This steep decline in orcish culture was arrested with the fall of the empires that had ruled them, and a number of powerful orcish kingdoms arose once again, though never reaching the preeminence they had once known. Orcish power was supreme in the Last Continent until the modern era; they have had difficulty adapting themselves to the modern era of nation-states, and many still work abroad as laborers and mercenaries.

Biology
There is considerable debate on the evolution of orcs as with all sapient life, with scholars from other races generally preferring an evolution from a common proto-sapient ancestor and the orcs themselves favoring either a local evolutionary origin or advancing themselves as the proto-sapients from which other species evolved. As orcs evolved in the very arid climates which dominate the Last Continent, they possess natural adaptations for deriving some energy and sustenance from the sun. This takes the form of chlorophyll in their skin, which converts solar energy into a usable form. This explains the greenish cast visible in most orcs, especially those with lighter skin; while orcs posess the same range of skin tones as humans, the presence of chlorophyll makes them seem to range from green to dark greenish-brown. They tend to be somewhat shorter than humans and elves, but stockier, and stronger on average. Despite specist tracts and opinions to the contrary, orcs are neither less intelligent nor more prone to violence than any other species.

Orc children are often multiple births, with twins nearly as common as single children, and triplets occurring in roughly ten percent of all orc pregnancies. Due to their faster metabolism, orc children reach maturity quickly, usually in about ten years. However, while their metabolism gives them greater strength and endurance, it also shortens their lifespan. Modern medicine has saved many that would otherwise have died, and prolonged the lives of others, but there is no record of an orc living beyond the age of seventy.

Culture
Orcs tend to value physical signs of wealth and power, along with demonstrations of such, and are often skeptical of those who cannot prove themselves thus. Traditionally, orcish women have been accorded very few rights and in many traditions are forbidden from leaving their dwellings; this has begun to change in recent history. They have a rich literary tradition of epic poetry which combines a list of (male) ancestors with their exploits; the head of every orc household is expected to prepare an updated copy of their family poem and hand it down to their eldest son. Because of this, literacy among orcs is extremely widespread (approximately 98%) and the distinct orcish scripts are a familiar sight in most multicultural cities.

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I worry too much, it’s true. I worry so much that I worry about worrying, what my professors would call metaworrying because slapping a prefix like meta- onto anything immediately makes it sound cool.

A lot of people say that, that they worry too much, and then when you quiz them it turns out they mean worrying about one thing ever is too much, the implication being that we should all be carefree and living in the moment. Then you have my uncle Frank, who says that there is usually one person in every organization who does the worrying for the other 99 twats who can’t be bothered, with that one person also usually being the one who does all the work.

So I guess you could say that I’m the worst of both worlds, in that I worry over a lot of things but am in a position to do very little about them, powerless as indentured graduate student instructors are.

So here I am worrying what I’ll do if that sass in my 2:00 class tells me my assignment is a waste of their time again (odds are about even for losing my temper and breaking down in tears in front of the whole class). Worries about the esoteric (what if the mediocre job I’m doing is condemning me in the afterlife?), the prosaic (why can’t American manufacture anything people want to buy anymore?), and the cosmically unlikely (what if my high school crush Abby Durant turns up on my doorstep–embrace or revenge?) mingle freely.

Why can’t I find a church that’s a happy medium between raging fundamentalism that hands out suicide bomb vests instead of votive candles and the Grand Generic Universalist Church of the Warm Liberal Fuzzies? I worry that’s a personal failing. Am I so negative that without complaints and worrying I’d have nothing to talk about? I metaworry on that one frequently. What if I wind up like Great Aunt Agnes, sitting in a nursing home with nothing but worry and bile to sustain my husk? The metaworries march on.

Then of course there are the heavier ones that I try to avoid, not because I want to be all oblivious and happy-go-lucky but because they make me ice-cream-tub depressed. I worry that no one would ever want to spend their life with me, I worry about clinging to my virginity in the unconscionable depths of my mid-twenties, I worry that I lack the courage to change anything about myself and that the worries will blur together as my entire life spins itself out as a lonely, bitter monotony.

And I worry about being too depressing, which means trying to worry about puppy dogs (and their under-representation versus kitty cats on the internet) and rainbows (and their co-option as a symbol by various and contradictory groups) for a while.

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In spring 1979, as spectacular color photographs of Jupiter were flooding the papers and television, a parishioner approached Reverend Carver after a service.

“Reverend,” he said, “What is role of the Lord in a world where Voyager is taking pictures of the heavens? What meaning do our little prayers and sermons have when we see everything that we’ve ever done, and everything we’ve ever known the Lord to have done, as a little blue dot against the dark?”

Reverend Carver paused to consider that. “It sounds to me,” he said,” like you’re asking why we’re searching for answers in here when it seems like they’re out there.”

“That’s the very thing,” the parishioner said.

The reverend thought long and hard on the question as he wrote the next week’s sermon, wrestling with the question as he balanced a copy of Time Magazine and the KJV on either knee.

“Someone asked me last week what role the Lord could have in a world with Voyager space probes,” Carver said to his flock one week later. “I’m not a scientist, and for all my preaching I don’t know everything about the Lord. But I can say this: Voyager represents mankind’s search for meaning in the inconceivable, as does the thing that brings us together today to let the inconceivable find meaning for us.”

Carver left the confort of his rostrum, which was not normal at all for the Reverend, he continued: We find answers, out there as in here, but we will never find them all. We will never understand everything; it is ultimately unknowable, and deep down perhaps we all know that. But in striving to know our universe, as in striving to know our God, we express the same yearning.”

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#97: Is there any more perfect illustration of the futility of life than a janitor mopping a floor as people walk over it?

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Virginia MacNeil, daughter of Marshals Vincent and Patricia MacNeil and soon-to-be Prosperity Ranger, crept through the tall grass at the outskirts of the Prosperity Falls settlement. She wore her full gear–her mother’s full gear–of duster and boots despite the hot and heavy air of the place, even close to midnight.

By the moonlight, she could see Jeanette Rhodes creeping into position on her left and Dale Ward quietly parting the stalks on her right. She signaled for them to move ahead, taking care to keep tree and grass in between them and the firelight in the distance. Their quarry loitered about ahead of them, unaware without so much as a sentry posted.

Virginia’s ambush was coming off without a hitch.

Their first target was dead ahead, apparently totally unaware of the three youngsters sneaking up on it. Jeanette and Dale flanked it with Virginia taking the center position. At the prearranged signal, a snap of Virginia’s fingers, they charged.

The cow grunted quietly as Virginia, Jeanette, and Dale leaned into it.

“It’s not tipping!” Dale grunted. “You said it would tip!”

“I thought were were going to push on it and then step back!” Jeanette cried. “Then it’ll fall when we move away cuz it’s asleep!”

“Does it look asleep to you?” Virginia cried. “Push harder!”

As they redoubled their efforts, the cow decided that it didn’t much care for the squabbling, yowling creatures pushing it as hard as they could. It mooed–or brayed, it was hard to tell–loudly in response, an alarm cry that was taken up by its fieldmates.

A moment later, a lantern appeared at the farmhouse door. “Who’s out there?”

“It’s Morrison!” Virginia cried, all thoughts of tipping the whole field suddenly forgotten. “Scatter!”

She and her confederates split up and dashed for the fences. Behind them came the roar of a rock-salt shotgun charge. “You goddamn kids! Get out of my field!”

In retrospect, Virgina thought sullenly, it wasn’t quite as heroic an episode the great Prosperity Ride of 1866 or even the legendary Cowpie Prank the junior rangers had carried out in 1870.

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Deerton had never exactly been a hotbed of crime. The city police mostly did traffic stops in town and busted the occasional minor in possession (or major in possession). Since the town had both the Tecumseh County Sheriff Department and Michigan State Police Post #381, there was an embarrassment of officers, and the City Police were redundant due to jurisdiction issues half the time.

So when it came time to retire, Officer John Daniels was looking forward to doing some real police work on his own time. The other officers sometimes called him “Jack” as a dig at how straitlaced he was, the exact opposite of the wild image a man nicknamed after a potent whiskey evoked. Tired of playing supporting second fiddle to the other police agencies and the Deerton Volunteer Fire Department.

But John’s amateur detective aspirations soon ran into a roadblock: even without the jurisdictional straitjacket, there was very little crime in Deerton. There was quite simply nothing to detect. John found a novel way around this: he contacted local institutions like the public library and the high school with an offer to hunt down people whose property had turned up in their lost and found. Using his police training and notes cribbed from cable TV, John was soon in the business of reuniting people with their lost effects.

And that’s how he came to be at the old farm off US 313 carrying a ratty old umbrella.

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Every space in the parking lot of Fitzgerald Stadium was numbered, 1 to 400, to allow campus police to easily identify anyone who wasn’t a member of the athletic dept or a VIP to be quickly and efficiently towed. Even on game days, the general public had to park elsewhere; the only way to get a space was to be a member of the football team or to rise up through the ranks on the managerial side.

One space, which would otherwise be #297, is not numbered. No one is quite sure why this is; the earliest mention of such a space is from the 1970s, shortly after the lot was constructed, so it may have been a simple oversight. But from that quirk of fate, a sinister and elaborate legend has grown up around that space.

A player who parks in that unnumbered space, it holds, curses the team to lose the next game.

Painting a number wouldn’t change the essential nature of the curse, the players hold, and as such it is left unmarked as a warning. Obviously not all the players believe the legend, but the pivotal 1986 game is always held up as a counterexample. Edward Mack, who would go on to win three Super Bowls as a professional player and found the influential father-son “Mack dynasty,” was nearly late for the game (due to a tryst, the tale has it). Forgetting the legend, he parked in the only available spot…and the Fighting Pottawatomie (later the Grizzlies) were defeated 12 to 40.

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I sat down at his invitation, surprised as I was to find an old white man with a British accent in such a remote ashram.

“I saw you looking at this earlier,” he said. He held out an exquisitely carved lotus flower, its white surface veined with intricate carvings. For a moment I thought it might be made from flakes of marble, but I was startled to realize that the material was actually chicken eggshells interlocked together without joints or glue. The slightest mishap could crush the entire beautiful object in an instant.

“Isn’t it dangerous, carrying around something so fragile?” I said. “Couldn’t you keep it inside?”

“It only took five years to make,” the old man laughed. “Not worth losing any sleep over. I use it for my meditation, to help with balance and coordination. It’s a powerful tool for self-control.”

It seemed like a powerful tool for frustration to me, but I maintained a respectful silence.

“I’ll go ahead and answer the question that you’re too polite to ask,” the man said. “I came here with my wife, a Dravidian who was born and raised in Australia. We met in Switzerland, at an avant-garde drama festival of all places. It was an international festival, and people kept on coming up to me speaking French or German or approaching her speaking Hindi or Bengali. We had never spoken those languages in our life, and gave very little thought to how we presented ourselves; as a result, people made assumptions, cast us in roles just like those wretched plays.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.

“That’s all right,” the old man said. “We didn’t understand what we’d learned either, at first. After we married, we decided to try and find a place without assumptions, roles, or masks. We quickly learned that this was impossible. Rather, we sought out a place of peaceful seclusion where we could attempt to divest ourselves of the assumptions, roles, or masks we thrust upon ourselves. It’s been nearly fifty years now, and I think this isolated little ashram is as good a place as any for introspection, don’t you?”

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All that the old stories record is that Minh woke up in an unfamiliar world with only the vaguest notion of where–or who–he had been before. Confronted with a vast and untamed wilderness, he sought not only to shelter himself but to seek out others. His first act was to build a rudimentary shelter; his second was to light and tend a hilltop bonfire.

Some time afterwards (perhaps a year; perhaps a day) Cyrene awoke in the same manner: alone, confused, in a haze. It was only through the beacon on Lighthouse Hill that she was able to locate Minh, who despite his foresight had despaired of ever seeing another such as himself. Together, they were able to build the fire to a stronger, more confident glow.

In time, others awoke and only through seeking out the lighthouse were they able to find one another.

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Every city has its own beat, if you know to listen for it.

I came from a place where the beat was slow and languid, peaceful and traditional. Like an old hymn or a fiddle band at a county fair. It’s a fine beat for some people: fine for my parents, fine for my sister.

But not for me.

I wanted a beat that was bold and fresh, vibrant and always in motion, ever-changing and rent with variation.

I wanted the city.

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