An old man publishes a book of poetry
Reflections on youth, nature, retirement
He sends copies to local libraries for free
Another old man greets shoppers at the door
Wishing them a happy Walmart experience
His reflections unpublished; no time, no money
In a hundred years, when people look back
Which would they rather have read?

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Three-sectioned luxury couch
Free to anyone who wants it
Used only a few times
In a midtown apartment
Paid for by parents
For their college student
Claim it anytime you want
From the dumpster

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The Book of Life
The single tome
Holding all the
Mysteries ever
Pondered over by
Mortal minds
Sits for sale
On Amazon.com
For one cent
Free shipping
Unknown binding
Unknown language
Great deal!
If it is sold
Jeff Bezos gets
.00001 cents
Has he already
Read the book
Or is he actually
Writing its sequel

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“Behind every mouse, there is another mouse who profits from its labors and even its death.”
-Ide proverb

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When wake ye from a slumber long
But all your dreams have up and gone
A fairies’ visit you have had
The tidings of which are never glad
Each stolen dream they siphon up
From your head into their cups
Then bear them hence, into the home
Of their darkest queen upon her throne
In mortal dreams does she seek
A way to learn the secrets we keep
For when she lays the last one bare
Her fairies’ time had come fore’er

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Burn out the Greymold where it gathers and grows. Anywhere you see its distinct color, smell its distinct aroma, begin your search and do not stop until it is destroyed.

Each tendril of the Greymold is like the synapse in a mammal’s brain, fired with energy from the foul slimes and detritus they consume. By the time it is detectable, it already had the quiescent intelligence of a minor beast. If left to grow, it will become a mind capable of functioning, reasoning…attacking.

Perhaps if our own neurons grew as quickly and as desperately as the Greymold we too would be able to act as it does, reaching out to control lesser minds and destroy greater ones. Perhaps it is best that ours do not.

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“My band specialize in assassinations of a very particular sort,” said Eyrain Gage. “The kind that requires the sort of magicks we possess.”

“And what is that?” Watch Captain Threby said. “Is it also why you don’t have Her Majesty’s writs to allow said magicks?”

“We assassinate memories,” Eyrain continued coolly, her voice still even. “When someone needs something to be forgotten forever. We find those with the memories we seek, and blot them out. If the person is weak-willed, a fool, then a powerful charm is all that is needed. All too often, though, the person will need to be snuffed out to ensure their memory dies with them. Now ask yourself: would such a band, even if they received their orders from Her Majesty herself, carry writs?”

“I ask myself if a liar lies as boldly as you, if only that those who hear will think no one could be so willfully false, and thus believe it,” replied Threby.

“What you should be asking yourself, Watch Captain,” Eyrain purred, “is why you have allowed yourself to be drawn into a situation where an assassin sits opposite you, and why your mind is currently racing to recall if there is anything you’ve ever seen that you…shouldn’t have.”

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