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On Horses?

08 Sunday Feb 2026

Posted by petersironwood in fantasy, fiction, story, Uncategorized, Veritas

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decision, fantasy, fiction, horses, leadership, life, myths, peace, politics, short story, story, truth, Veritas, war, writing

Though the Veritas were at high feast and had no known enemies, they reacted with amazing speed and fluid preparedness. They radiated out to previously staked out positions across the stream, opposite the direction of the arrows. Shadow Walker and Fleet of Foot ran with Many Paths. Once under cover, they turned back to assess the situation. 

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Many Paths tracked the flaming arrows still streaming into the Center Place. Her thoughts raced: Who was this enemy that attacked without warning? What had happened to the Veritas guards? Which pre-planned counter-attack should be mounted? Many Paths felt a hand upon her shoulder. It was Fleet of Foot. He pointed to a small herd of horses speeding up the hill on the other side. But…Many Paths stared. These horses had people astride them! For a moment it seemed impossible. Yet, here it was, clearly visible for a moment before the horses and their companions disappeared into the forest. The arrows stopped flying. People and horses running as one? It was all happening too fast for her to decide what to do. She glanced at Fleet of Foot and spoke in a low voice. “A double flanking counter-attack?” 

Fleet of Foot nodded and barked a few short “commands” which were not words but the whistles of birds. The Veritas now streamed out from cover with weapons drawn and bows drawn, ready to overwhelm their enemy. Yet, no such enemy appeared. Those Veritas with the youngest and keenest ears could hear the distant muffled hoofbeats of horses in the wooded hills but no target could be discerned. The arrows were burning out and had not caused any serious or widespread damage. 

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Many Paths quickly convened a war council. Shadow Walker quickly volunteered to lead a tracking party into the woods to determine the origin of this unseen enemy. Fleet of Foot and several other braves agreed to join including their visitors from the Nomads of the South. Many Paths knew that Tu-Swift would also volunteer but she judged that he was not quite ready for such a dangerous adventure. The arguments were forming on her lips but no such request came. She moved on to other matters at hand. 

She turned to Eagle Eyes. “I have trained wolves and you have trained hawks and eagles. Have you imagined to train horses as well?” 

“No, I mean, they are so large and fast and strong. How could one convince such an animal to serve a human? Yet, so too the eagle could easily fly away yet chooses to stay and befriend me. So, perhaps it is possible. I could try. I would have to think on that. It would take time. Much time. It is all happening too quickly.” 

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Many Paths nodded. “Indeed, it all happened too swiftly for me to….” Many Paths broke off her speech and scanned the larger crowd of Veritas who were repairing the feast, putting out small fires, and fetching weapons and provisions for the tracking party. She swallowed hard as panic began to dry her mouth so badly she found it hard to speak loudly. 

“Tu-Swift! TU-SWIFT!! Where is Tu-Swift?” Her council looked about them. Shadow Walker leapt on top of a small log pile and yelled, “Has anyone seen Tu-Swift?” The people paused in their tasks, looking about them. They muttered questions at each other and shook their heads. No-one had seen Tu-Swift since the feast had been interrupted. 

Many Paths breathed deeply to calm herself. The Veritas were looking to her and she needed to keep a cool head. She looked to She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives and their eyes locked. The old shaman shook her head imperceptibly. Many Paths understood her meaning — that Many Paths was now the leader and it was up to her to decide what to do. Many Paths nodded back. Again panic almost overtook her as she imagined Tu-Swift injured or dead. Into her mind, unbidden, the image of the death of her parents came to mind. She pushed all this aside and strode over to the table where she had last seen Tu-Swift, dreading to find his lifeless body under the table. 

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Tu-Swift at that moment was alive but already a fair distance away.

Mentally, Tu-Swift screamed: I can’t see! I can’t see!  but he was, in fact, unable to manage more than a muffled grumble. He felt the cloth, tight across his mouth and the dark cloth around his head. He could not imagine what was happening. He felt his body bouncing up and down. Perhaps he had fallen into the rapids, he thought, and the rocks and frothing water tossed his body about like a fluttering leaf. But he didn’t feel wet. Fighting to stay coherent, he tried to organize his thoughts: Inventory. Inventory. An image of Many Paths playing a game with him flashed into his mind. She had explained that, even in confusion, one could use various tricks to stay calm. One was to take inventory. What do I know and what can I sense? 

He began at the top. The back of his head pained him. He could hear. He could see as well, though not well. The world continued to bounce but it was cloth tight around his head that made it difficult to see. He heard pounding all around him. He smelled pine and dirt and horses. His wrists hurt and so did his ankles. He tried to move them but found them tightly bound. The pounding sound, he recognized. And people were talking, but not in the tongue of the Veritas. He tried to recall the snippets of other languages he had heard. This speech didn’t sound like Cupiditas, or the speech of the Southern Nomads nor yet of the Fierce Fighters of the North. 

What did he remember? There had been a race. He had raced Many Paths to the Center Place where they were about to have a feast. Had he won the race? He couldn’t recall. He had turned and run straight into a sapling. It must have knocked him out. No, that wasn’t a hard enough blow. The sapling had sprung him backwards. It had mainly hit his chest, not the back of his head which now throbbed with every bounce. Had he fallen backwards and hit his head? Maybe, but how would that make him tied up? And bouncing? Inventory. Inventory. Tu-Swift tried to sort it out, but nothing made sense and he drifted out of consciousness again. 

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Many-Paths thought she had been fearing the worst: to see the lifeless body of her brother. But when she saw instead, the obvious signs that he had been dragged away, she found that, this was even worse than the worst. If her brother had died, of course, that was cause for grief. But no-one is brought back from the dead. Her journey would be a trail of tears, but it was a single path. Her only strategic choice for the tribe would be whether or not to pursue revenge for her own private motive. It would be easy, she knew, to slide from one issue to the other. She might hate the people who killed her brother and want them all dead, even though this might (or might not) be disastrous for the tribe. They didn’t really know enough about this enemy right now to decide the best course of action. But she could argue and support those who argued that this enemy was dangerous and deadly; that they needed to be weeded out now or they could keep striking like this over and over. There was certainly that possibility. But Many Paths knew that misleading the tribe in even the smallest degree would be the worst possible thing that a leader could do. She would be able, she knew, to fight and win the battle of that temptation. 

But now, Many Paths was faced with a far more painful path, and a far less certain one. She thought: What to do? What was best for Tu-Swift? What was best for everyone? Should they invade, negotiate, run. Determining the best course of action for her own selfish motives would be difficult and complex. Determining the best course of action for her tribe would also be difficult and complex. Trying to disentangle the two so that she could do what was best for the tribe would be more difficult still. She never once doubted whether this was the proper course of action, but she did doubt her ability to do all that. Perhaps she should relinquish leadership to another. She at least knew that she needed the counsel of She Who Saves Many Lives. 

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Many Paths turned to walk to the cabin of She Who Saves Many Lives and there she was and the elder shaman spoke immediately, “You will do the right thing, Many Paths. You will do the right thing. Listen to the heart of your heart and you will know. It is okay to share everything with others to get their input, of course. I know you to be a listener. Go and lead our people. Go.”

“What kind of a people would tear a child from their family?” Many Paths asked.

“Indeed,” said She Who Saves Many Lives, “that is the central question. What kind of a people would tear a child away from their family? And, what will we do about it? Now, Go and lead the people.”

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Author Page on Amazon.

The Beginning of the Myths of the Veritas. 

Essays on Greed.

A Pattern Language for Collaboration. 

Our Choices Impact Evolution.

Three Part Series on the Pros and Cons of AI. 

Articles on the Uses of Stories and Storytelling. 

The Orange Man

At Least he’s Our Monster

The Ailing King of Agitate

An Open Source from Hell

The Impossible 

Myths of the Veritas: Feast and Fire

07 Saturday Feb 2026

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

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celebration, Democracy, empathy, ethics, fantasy, feast, fiction, leadership, life, short story, story, strategy, tactics, truth, Veritas, writing

Myths of the Veritas: Book II

{Translator’s Note} In what follows, I was able to make use of a new class of self-correcting statistical algorithms that allows for a more detailed depiction of the spoken and drum languages of the Veritas. This work has been aided immeasurably by archaeometrical modeling and, in particular, the Schliemann-Baudhayana equations. Needless to say, these advances notwithstanding, narrative reconstruction is still fraught with numerous perils and is still as much an art as a science — a distinction lacking, so far as we can tell, in the thinking of the Veritas themselves who conceived of truth and beauty as tree and fruit.

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Feast and Fire

“Well, why wouldn’t we? It is faster, right?” Tu-Swift grew impatient with his older sister. 

Many-Paths however, simply smiled as she answered. It was a genuine smile too, not the patronizing smile of an older, wiser sister; nor the forced smile used today as a means of manipulation; rather, her smile was nothing other than a genuine expression of her heart. 

Many-Paths could don an expression and feign a tone of voice as well as anyone. She, like most of the Veritas, simply chose not to feign feelings with other members of their own tribe, or indeed, with any other tribe excepting only in the case of true enemies like the Cupiditas had been. 

The reason that Many-Paths smiled was this: she appreciated the passion of her younger brother and his single-mindedly determination to prove his point even if it meant overlooking things that he himself knew to be true. Many-Paths was of an entirely different nature, as indicated from her name. As leader of the Veritas, Many-Paths had passed many trials of empathy and fair judgement. And as a leader, she was well-aware that the tribe needed people like Tu-Swift who would press on and on for something no matter what. And as a leader she was also well-aware that the tribe needed people like Many-Paths to provide a check on such ill-conceived enthusiasm. 

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So, Tu-Swift felt the actual kindness in the voice of Many-Paths as she answered gently. “I think you yourself know the answers to why we might not choose to do it even if it is faster.  I also think you can imagine conditions under which your method would be considerably slower.  But meanwhile, I can hear that the voices of the people are happy and loudening. We ourselves should also be making our way to the feast.”

Tu-Swift needed no further encouragement to attend a feast, especially the feast of Bel-Tanay, with its promise of fresh greens, strawberries, grilled fish, and honey-sweetened ground nuts. He spun on his heel and hurtled toward the Center Place. So quickly did he turn and so quickly did he begin to sprint, and so thoroughly did the image of honey-sweetened ground nuts capture his attention, that he immediately slapped his body into a small sapling which rebounded him backwards at the feet of Many-Paths. He was a tough little boy, graced with a lithe and muscular frame. Hence, he sprang back up almost as quickly as the sapling had slung him backwards. “Sorry,” he muttered to the sapling as he once again sprinted toward the feast. 

Many-Paths shouted after him with good humor: “Are you too swift Tu-Swift?” She shook her head slightly, still unsure whether he had even heard her gentle rebuke let alone truly processed it. There would be other opportunities, she thought. Many-Paths had no more desire to change the nature of To-Swift than she did to change a rabbit into a tortoise. She pictured a brown rabbit with a white tail plodding methodically along with his long legs splayed out sideways. Without a shell, such a slow and furry tortoise would stand no chance to survive the predations of eagle or fox. As She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives had taught her, each branch of life must be its own form. Yet, rabbit, tortoise, and human beings also made choices. One of the most important a human being could ever make was simply accepting that no one path is most appropriate for every occasion. 

Many-Paths could still have caught up with her younger brother for she had also inherited feet that flew. And, this natural talent she had nurtured. She had explored various loping, skipping, and sprinting gaits thoroughly to see for herself how various gaits worked best under various circumstances of terrain and weather. This day, this moment, however, required no speed whatever and Many-Paths found it more pleasant to stroll to the Center Place, anticipating the savory salmon laid on a bed of wild lettuce and garnished with grape tendrils; the rich warm acorn and wild rice pudding; the tangy sweetness of fresh strawberries. 

Before she rounded the guardhouse that blocked her view of the gathering throng, she tried to imagine the various groups and sub-groups that would be eating together. As leader, it often proved useful to be able to predict such matters. Her predictive skills improved daily though perfection at such a task might be years, perhaps even decades away, as She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives had explained soon after she had bestowed upon Many-Paths the Seventh and Final Ring of Empathy. 

“Your skills will continue to improve,” She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives had explained, “provided only that you walk a balanced way using both legs and both minds – the mind that sees what may be and the mind that sees what is actually there.” 

Many-Paths had nodded solemnly because she “understood” what Saves-Many had meant though the depth of that understanding had deepened considerably over the years. In her mind that sees what may be, Many-Paths first pictured Shadow Walker and she predicted that he would likely be already chatting with Eyes-of-Eagle and Fleet-of-Foot whom she had not seen for nearly a year. Many-Paths thought it likely that one of the Nomads of the South would have accompanied them. Trust was still a bit fragile between the two tribes but trade, and games, and sharing stories, and playing drums, and dancing, and sharing meals — all of these had served to grow many bonds between the two tribes. And surely today’s feast with the wonderful aromas she now inhaled could only serve to strengthen ties between the tribes. 

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Many-Paths walked into the clearing of the Center Place. She glanced around quickly to see how people had arranged themselves. The groupings largely confirmed her hypotheses except that strangers occupied the space near — no, wait! There they were! Eyes-of-Eagle, Fleet-of-Foot, and even Shadow Walker had donned robes in the manner of the Southern Nomads. The craftily constructed garb fooled her eyes so badly that she had not even recognized her friends at first, not even Shadow Walker! She laughed at how she had been fooled. In this case, she had even know where to look, but she had still found it difficult to see what was truly there. Walking a balanced way did indeed prove to be a life-long challenge. 

As Many-Paths made her way to her place, she exchanged many small waves and nods with other in her tribe. Though all were aware of her role as leader and the vital role she had played in the storied victory in the war with the Cupiditas, the people did not indulge in various displays of deference or position. They gave great weight to her words, despite her youth, because of her intelligence and competence, not because she held some “position.” Unlike the Cupiditas, no-one bowed deeply to her or waited to see what she thought before offering their own honest opinion. She dressed in deerskins much like the others of the Veritas. Typically, as today, she wore the Seven Rings of Empathy threaded onto a knotted necklace of leather. Only this and her radiant manner set her off from her compatriots. 

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As she approached, the animated chatter of her friends stopped and they all rose to embrace her. Shadow Walker’s embrace held the most strength and the most warmth. She found herself blushing slightly. She wished to clear her mind so she could properly welcome the visitors from the Southern Nomads. That took precedence over her own considerably awakened desire. 

“Well met, new friends from the south. I am Many-Paths and I am much impressed with the raiment you provided! These people sitting next to you are my friends from birth. Yet, I at first did not recognize them. So cleverly did you fashion these robes! My congratulations. I must confess that I am led toward three paths at once. I wish to know more about such magic and skill. I want to learn about you and what you think of the Veritas and yet, I also want to learn from my friends about their adventures in your lands as well. Sometimes, you see, Many-Paths has too many paths to choose from.”

“I am happy most glad to meet you at last, She-Who-Walks-Many-Paths-to-Save-Many-Lives. I am happy most glad you like the robes of. We have brought such a glad one for you as well. I am known among my tribe as ‘Lion-Slayer, The Silent One’ and this is my wife, Hudah Salah.”

Hudah Salah now stepped forward and took both hands of Many-Paths in hers and looked into her eyes. Many-Paths returned the gaze. “It is nice. I to meet you in person. My husband is yes glad to be Lion-Slayer. He does not often be called ‘Silent One.’ 

Lion-Slayer chuckled. “I make joke. I like talk.” 

“I do too,” chimed in Fleet-of-Foot. “I like to eat even more! Please pass the salmon!”

Tu-Swift, grabbed the plate quickly and passed it to Fleet-of-Foot, his favorite ‘Uncle.’ Before he had finished handing off the platter, an urgent cry rang out in his ears, sharp above the general happy din. 

“To arms! To arms!” It was Many-Paths issuing commands! Tu-Swift wondered whether she had gone mad. Why was she saying that in the middle of a feast? He shook his head to wake himself up in case he had been dreaming. Again, she was shouting, “To the Cottonwoods!”

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But shaking his head changed nothing, everywhere warriors were readying their weapons and now Tu-Swift’s consciousness seemed to shatter into an incoherent blur of sound and color and pain. He heard whooshing arrows twang into wood. He saw an arrow land on a table near him. Color shot out from the shaft. He could feel the heat and taste the pain. Fleet-of-Foot wrenched him around and in one swift motion snapped the arrow in two, pulled out the shaft and wrapped a makeshift bandage around Tu-Swift’s forearm. 

All around him, Tu-Swift saw arrows streaming and flaming down from the sky; he saw his people gather weapons. He saw his sister leading a band of warriors out across the water toward a stand of trees. This, he thought, is where the arrows come from. This arrow. This arrow came through my arm. I am shot. That’s why I hurt. I have to help fight. Tu-Swift rose to his feet and immediately felt very light-headed. He grabbed a large flint carving knife. He fell to his knees, crawled under the table and fainted. 

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Creation Myth of the Veritas

Fragmentary Myth of the Veritas

The First Ring of Empathy

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Somewhere a Bird Cries

At Least he’s Our Monster

Tools of Thought: And then what?

You Know

The Walkabout Diaries: Natural Variation

It’s not your fault; it’s not your fault

Aftermath: The Great Escape

05 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by petersironwood in America, psychology, Veritas

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escape, fiction, greed, Justice, leadership, learning, myths, peace, politics, retribution, revenge, short story, story, strategy, tactics, torture, truth, Veritas, war, writing

Aftermath: The Great Escape

Veritas warriors pursued the retreating Cupiditas through the forests and plains until the Cupiditas had nearly arrived back at their own central place. Then, the Veritas posted lookouts to ensure that the Cupiditas did not regroup and re-attack though they judged this unlikely. The main contingent of Veritas who had served as archers returned to the center place. When evening came, She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives now sought the council of many of the Veritas as to the fate of POND MUD, ALT-R and the blinded and bitter KAVA-NUT. 

Various suggestions ranged from swift killing to lengthy and painful tortures.  During these discussions, She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives and She-of-Many-Paths had stayed uncharacteristically quiet. At last, She-of-Many-Paths spoke quietly. 

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“I can well understand why so many are eager to avenge injuries and deaths on those three traitors. Consider how it is for them, for one moment. They have no place of honor among us. They played some part in a disastrous defeat for the Cupiditas. No doubt, the Cupiditas survivors would much rather blame those three than any of their own. We need to consider what is best for us as well as for them and for the Tree of Life itself. Given that they may prove troublesome in one way or another while they live, I see some wisdom in killing them. Torturing them may prove fun for some, but what does such enjoyment make us? Does it really promote the Tree of Life? I think not. We could torture them for information that proves valuable, but if you imagine yourself being tortured, would you not say whatever you imagine your torturer wanted to hear in order to make the torture stop? Would this really be a clear path toward truth? It seems to me that torture is more a thing for Cupiditas than the Veritas. 

“It is true, as many have said, that they may have information about the Cupiditas that would be useful for us and also about the ways of the Southern Nomads and the Fierce and Formidable Warriors of the North. But I propose that I speak with them individually and in this way, attempt to see into their hearts. I cannot guarantee success, especially with ALT-R who has fooled many amongst us. Yet, let me see what I can learn and with what degree of certainty. Then, we may finish these deliberations armed with more knowledge. Besides that, it seems to me that we need to learn, if we can, how to avoid such traitors in the future. How did three of our own people work to enslave us? It may be that such is their nature and there is nothing that we could have done or do in the future, but it may also be that we could learn what we may have done wrong and prevent having such traitors in the future.” 

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives said, “I think this is a good plan. Meanwhile, we can prepare for the celebrations of two large victories and one small victory.” Many nodded in the firelight. The Veritas considered a victory in battle as reason for a small celebration, but a victory without bloodshed held seeds of future peace as well and thus was considered reason for an even greater celebration. 

The tribe assented to the plan of She-of-Many-Paths and she began immediately while others made preparations for a great feast and dance. 

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She-of-Many-Paths thought first to query KAVA-NUT. 

He screamed that he would get revenge and how it was unfair to use a giant bird to fight. 

She-of-Many-Paths quietly asked, “Was it unfair to use the superior strength of three men to try to force your will on Eagle Eyes?”

KAVA-NUT screamed, “That’s what men do sometimes when the blood is high. It’s natural!” 

“That is not our way, Kava-Nut, as you well know.” She-of-Many-Paths found anger rising in her own heart. She forced herself to relax so her mind would stay sharp and her heart open.

“Women choose with whom they wish to mate. And for what purpose could the people of the Veritas trust you? I would not trust you to make a cabin for it might please you to finish quickly for your own convenience without regard to strength. I would not trust you to hunt for in your eagerness to be done with it, you might scare away all such prey as might otherwise be taken. I would not trust you to grind corn for your cruelty might cause you to put small sharp flint flakes to destroy someone you did not like from the inside out. For what could I trust you? For what purpose could any among the people trust you when you would force yourself on someone else for your own pleasure with no regard to how that would affect them?”

“I don’t care! She blinded me! She can’t give me back my eyes!”

“No, but there is still a chance that you may see. Think upon it.”

“May you slowly die of thirst! I curse you! I will get even! We will attack with the Cupiditas! You will all be our slaves.” 

“That’s already been tried. Surely, you know this, blind or not. The Cupiditas have been utterly defeated.” 

KAVA-NUT raved on, “You’re LYING! We are going to CRUSH you! You’ll see!” 

She-of-Many-Paths grew angry in spite of herself. She snorted a small laugh and shook her head as she realized that his own hatred and egotism blinded him far more severely than the Eagle had. Then she grew sad for it seemed that there was nothing that could be learned from KAVA-NUT himself. She would try another tack. “You realize that right now, the people are trying to decide whether to kill you slowly or kill you quickly. I convinced them…”

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! I don’t want to hear about it! Go away! She-of-So-Many-Words-It-Drives-Everyone-Crazy.” 

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Despite his vitriol, She-of-Many-Paths found this funny. “I’ve argued that there may be some value in what you know. If I can’t convince them, you will likely die soon one way or another. So, you need to convince me that you have some kind of value.”

“YOU IDIOT! The Cupiditas are going to enslave you! POND MUD, NUT-PI, ALT-R. These will be your lords. Go away, slave!” 

She-of-Many-Paths did not give up, but she did decide further attempts to talk right now would be fruitless. She decided to try POND MUD next to see whether he had any more insight into his own character and situation as well as those of his companions. 

“POND MUD? I come to speak with you. As I promised, the Veritas are trying to decide your fate. I come now to learn whether there is anything I should know to speak on your behalf.”

“Hello, She-of-Many-Paths. I am strong. So I can help move or build things. Remember I always used to win that game – King on the Hill. Right?”

She-of-Many-Paths cast her mind back. “Here’s what I remember, POND MUD. I remember that ALT-R almost always won that game. He was at the top. But right below him, there you were, throwing everyone else off with your great strength.” 

“Exactly. That’s what I was talking about!” POND MUD looked hopeful.

“You didn’t actually win, POND MUD. It was really ALT-R. He used your strength to get what he thought was best for him, not what he thought best for you or for both of you or for the Veritas as a whole. This is his way and though I don’t condone it, I understand it as a kind of blindness to his place in the universe. I don’t understand why you keep following ALT-R though he uses you for his purposes and only promises and persuades you that he cares about your welfare. So, why do you continue to believe him?” 

“It just works out better when we follow his plan. I can make plans too. But they aren’t as good. His plans are better. His plan was to have all of our forces come at once on the middle way but NUT-PI didn’t like that plan. Anyway, ALT-R is my friend. I think he’s the only one who really looks out for me.”

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She-of-Many-Paths sighed and shook her head. “Oh, POND MUD. There were many who liked you. And I promise you that ALT-R is not looking out for you.”

“You’re wrong. He’s told me he looks out for me. He’s said that many times.”

She-of-Many-Paths decided she could say nothing that would break POND MUD’s devotion to ALT-R. To POND MUD, POND MUD and ALT-R were inseparable; like one entity – a partnership. She-of-Many-Paths was sure that ALT-R viewed POND MUD as a useful tool. But maybe that’s not really true. I wonder how ALT-R really does view it, but extracting the truth from him would be difficult indeed. Perhaps she could try a different approach and learn something about ALT-R and probe POND MUD’s thoughts at the same time. As for the future, we should be on the lookout for this kind of exploitative relationship early. The way they played King on the Hill should have clued them in that something was amiss. 

“So, POND MUD, how did you and ALT-R work together to plan this battle.” 

“Well, I can’t really tell you that. You see? I would be betraying my friend, ALT-R.” 

She-of-Many-Paths carefully avoided trying to question POND MUD’s premises and said instead, “I don’t see. Of course, if it were before our battles, you would be betraying your side but the battles are all over. I am guessing that you would not be welcome any more at the Cupiditas. They will almost certainly blame their loss on the three of you more than their own commanders. And, now, you see how it is. You haven’t joined your comrades in their retreat. If you were to leave now and show up so late, they would be even more inclined to think you traitorous to them. So I don’t really see how you are betraying the Cupiditas or ALT-R to tell me what your decision process was like.” 

“I don’t want to say anything about it.” POND MUD lowered his head and spoke softly. “I’ve been thinking about it and I may have already betrayed him. I spoke with you and told you things I shouldn’t have. Then, later, when ALT-R asked me about it, I said that I had just seen you but that we had not spoken. So, you might have used what I said and then I should have admitted that I did talk with you. See, I’m not so perfect either. Don’t tell him though! You won’t tell him will you?” POND MUD seemed more concerned about ALT-R’s opinion of him than the fact that his very life hung in the balance. 

She-of-Many-Paths sighed again. “No, POND MUD. You might want to tell him, but I’m not going to. Anyway, POND MUD, you do realize that your very life is at stake here, right? You have to be able to convince the Veritas that they can trust you again. How will you do that?” 

“I wish you would do it! You’re much better at that sort of thing than I am. That’s one reason…anyway, what will you tell them?”

“I’m not sure I should speak for you, but what will you say? How can we trust you? If you do whatever ALT-R says you should do, then we can only trust you if we can trust him. But how can we trust him? If might help to understand more about how you interacted with each other and with NUT-PI and others. Do you see how you threw your lot in with someone who has guided you on a path to disaster?” 

POND MUD frowned. “Well, I don’t think of it that way. ALT-R is smart. I am strong. Why shouldn’t the strong do as the smart people suggest?” 

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She-of-Many-Paths considered. “There is something to what you say. But you must trust such a smart person to act for all, not just for himself or herself. And if such a smart person has followers who never question that leader but go along with everything, their temptation to play all their followers for fools. That’s why we have open dialogue with as many as desire to be involved. The people have also developed various customs and rules to prevent a person who is smart from misleading them onto a path of destruction, regardless of how seductive his words might appear. If you cede all power to one particular person, however clever they may be, the trust we have in you can be no greater than the trust we have in that person. I have great trust in She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives. I can feel that she is trustworthy. But I also have a lifetime of experience with her actions and her words. How can any of us trust ALT-R? How can you trust him?” 

POND MUD shook his head. “I don’t know. But I do. He’ll get us out of this jam. I know he will.” 

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She-of-Many-Paths sighed, “I will go now and relate our conversation to the council. I feel bad for you POND MUD. I see in you a good heart but one too readily given to a deceiver and a traitor. Yet my own inadequacies prevent me from finding a way to show you that which seems so obvious to me. Your path to life is a path you must carve on your own. The path you are on has led you from bad to worse and ultimately to a death before your time. You may not see things the same way. I understand that. But all the people who hold your life in their hands…do you not see that they have no reason whatever to trust ALT-R nor a POND MUD who has shown such devotion to a traitor?” 

POND MUD stomped and hit his fists together. “You’ll see! ALT-R will get us free!”  

She-of-Many-Paths strode away through the night replaying her recent conversations and wondering what she might have said differently. At last, it was nearly time to speak with ALT-R. Yet, she wanted to formulate a plan for such a conversation. She certainly knew she would not fall for his lies as easily as POND MUD and yet, even the prospect of sharing his space and his air filled her with a sense of foreboding and disgust. His words were like the bright red berries of the creeping nightshade — pretty to behold but a slow and subtle poison nonetheless. She paced back and forth finally deciding that she would try pumping him for information about his companions and about the Cupiditas. As She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives often said, “Even in the words of your enemies, if you look behind their hate, you may find wise counsel to guide your life.” That seemed too much to hope for. But she would discover what could be learned. If ALT-R kept avoiding the questions or giving answers that seemed lies, that would be worth noting. Yet, some seeds of truth might spill upon her consciousness in the threshing of the truth that she foresaw.

She came to his enclosure and heard him talking to someone. Or, perhaps he was greeting her, she wondered. She decided to approach quietly. She glanced through the enclosure to see ALT-R sitting in the far corner muttering to himself. She quietly padded around the enclosure so that she could listen to his musings. She was well aware that it was possible he heard her and that his seemingly spontaneous mutterings could be a show for her rather than an opening into his real heart. Perhaps what he muttered was only a trap with camouflage such as the ones that the Veritas had laid at the bottom of the slippery hill to trap Cupiditas invaders. He seemed to be muttering to himself. But who knew. She could only catch some of the words. 

“POND MUD. Unreliable. She-of-Many-Paths. Too many paths. But she is smart. That’s the kind of companion I should seek. Smart. We could rule together. But she likes Trunk of Tree or maybe Shadow Walker. She doesn’t like POND MUD. She might like me though. I could help her lead. It has to be her. Not Shadow Walker. Not Eagle Eyes. Damn POND MUD. He must have told her our plans! The problem is, no-one trusts me now. I have to win their trust, but how? I’ve done it before. I can do it again. But no. This time, no-one will believe me.” 

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She-of-Many-Paths decided to break into this monologue. “ALT-R. I have come to talk with you about your fate.” 

“Oh, She-of-Many-Paths, yes, the cleverest of us all! You should be celebrating your great victory. You defeated the Cupiditas. Well done. They are a brutal people and I never should have thrown my lot in with them. But I did. I understand. Now there is nothing but death ahead. I don’t blame you. Yes. That’s what I would do. I wouldn’t expect you to show mercy now. Though some have called you merciful. But I never believed it. Because mercy is just another name for weakness, right?” 

Generally, She-of-Many-Paths had a soft warm voice, but on this occasion her voice clanged of dull iron and angry crows. “I’ll get right to the point, ALT-R. Many of the Veritas would like to see you dead. Along with KAVA NUT and POND MUD. Why should we spare you?”

ALT-R seemed in a good mood which seemed odd under the circumstances. “I can think of no reason. Can you? You seem to like wolves after all. If you can train a wolf to work with you, then maybe you could even train me?” 

She-of-Many-Paths considered this. She had indeed trained some wolves. But it wouldn’t really be true to say that she trusted them exactly. Why was he bringing this up? Clever. Rather than arguing his case, he was trying to get her to do it for him. He was appealing to her vanity. Offer up a challenge. If I can train a wolf, he wants me to think I can therefore also train one such as ALT-R to be cooperative. 

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“I repeat my question, ALT-R. Why should we spare you? Convince me. There are many who would simply have you put to death. A slightly larger number would have you put to death slowly. A few would like to see you turned over to the Cupiditas. I suspect they relish inflicting tortures. So, why should we spare you?” 

In the dim light, looking through the slats and webbing, she could see that ALT-R smiled as he answered. “I can’t think of a single reason. Can you?”

“No,” answered She-of-Many-Paths. She could see that ALT-R was trying to engage her; to make his problem into her problem. Indeed, she did feel frustrated that she could see no path to rehabilitation for any of them. Each of the traitors seemed dead set in their ways. 

After a long pause, ALT-R spoke again. “I don’t see a way. I am actually quite a changed man but I see no way to prove that to you. Or to the Veritas as a whole. I see that no-one now trusts me. And why should you? I have betrayed my people. There is nothing to be done. I am sure I will die soon, slow or fast. It’s sad, to be sure, that we can train the wild wolves and trust them and not be able to train one of our own such as myself. But that’s the way of it. If you can’t think of a way to save me, I’m sure no-one else can either. Too bad in a way. We would have been such an amazing pair of rulers, you and I. And, imagine we had kids! How smart might they be! You know, POND MUD always had his eye on you. He always wanted you so, since he is my friend, I never said anything to you. I didn’t want it to become a wedge between my friend and I. And, you always seemed to like Trunk of Tree. Or, Shadow Walker. Or both? I don’t know. Is it possible to like more than one? Just as I like more than one way of looking at things.” 

After another long pause, She-of-Many-Paths said, “I’m not hearing a reason that I can take to the Veritas to argue for your life.” 

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t bother. I’m sure you have more important things to do. I was just musing on you and your name. I admire your ability to see things from many ways. I do like — or did like — some of the things about the Cupiditas, but on the whole, I can see that our way — the way of the Veritas — is much better. Their way is too nasty for me. Does that surprise you? I suppose you might see at least something good in their ways. Right? You can always see things in more than one way. That’s what I … what I … like about you.” 

“I don’t actually know much about the Cupiditas. What can you tell me about them? What was your plan exactly? Were you going to murder us all? Enslave us? Just steal everything you could?” 

“The leader of the Cupiditas, NUT-PI, I can tell you is a coward. He would not lead his people in the battle. He held back someplace safe and far removed. But he is cruel and bloodthirsty. It was his idea to kill most of you and enslave the rest. In fact, he wanted me to bring him three of the most spirited women from among the Veritas to him. His plan was to torture them into submission. He specifically asked, not for the three most beautiful, but for the three most spirited. Naturally I thought of you. And Eyes of Eagle. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t possibly be a part of anything like that.”

“So you say, ALT-R, and yet you were willing to help KAVA-NUT try to rape Eagle Eyes and lie about it.”

“Ah, yes. That was a horrible misunderstanding. KAVA-NUT, you must realize, convinced me and also POND MUD, that Eagle Eyes really wanted KAVA-NUT but was just too shy to make it obvious to him. Also she feared that Fleet of Foot would perhaps be jealous and kill them both. Anyway, I am glad I was able to prevent having you snatched away. But I don’t expect special treatment for saving you, She-of-Many-Paths. It was just that I couldn’t really bear the thought of you with NUT-PI. You don’t know how cruel he is, but I do. He is not the man for you. Ruthless. Powerful. Clever too. But I see how you could prefer someone less clever such as Trunk of Tree or Shadow Walker. Someone who is just — you know — an okay person. Not really worthy of a leader such as yourself. Well, that’s why…you know…you and I are both leaders. In that one way at least, we are similar. But I can see why you would prefer someone less smart than you. Being with me, you would always be second guessing whether what I am saying is true. You’re probably even wondering that now though I am simply telling you the truth.” 

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She-of-Many-Paths found this entire web of lies interesting in that, despite her knowing full well that ALT-R probed for a weakness and wanted to poison her mind, it still had some slight effect. No wonder POND MUD fell for his trickery. But in the end, ALT-R’s words were no more meaningful than the winds whispering in the leaves of the birches near the stream. 

“Goodbye, ALT-R. I will report on our conversation to the council. Like all among the Veritas, you have received a great and wondrous gift, the gift of speaking and of weaving words together to make stories. This is a gift more splendid than any other imaginable. Think for a moment of all that gift allows us. It allows us to work together and improve things over time. Yet, you pervert this gift. You use false stories merely as a way to manipulate others and get your own way. It is a pity in much the same way it would be for a fish to bite off its own fins or an eagle to tear out its own eyes. It is the one true gift that humankind has and instead of using it as it is meant to be used…goodbye.” 

 She walked away, feeling as though she needed to bathe in a stream so as to remove the slather of lies that he had spewed upon her. She would need to scrub with horsetails as well, she reckoned. And so she did. Then, feeling cleaner and refreshed, she at last donned clean bright clothes for the celebrations. The celebrations lasted three days and two nights. When all had eaten their fill and danced unto oblivion, the Veritas smoked of the devil weed and considered again the issue of what to do with the three traitors. 

A variety of interesting and painful tortures were considered. Many others simply wanted them dead as quickly as possible. They viewed them as a virulent tumor that must be excised from the people. 

After all ideas were considered but no clear consensus emerged, She-of-Many-Paths began to speak. 

“I do not trust any of the three. I feel that they are every bit as corrupt as when we first vanquished them. If anything, ALT-R has grown more clever in his lies. POND MUD will follow ALT-R no matter what. KAVA-NUT has gone mad so far as I can tell. I could experience some joy at their severe pain, but I do not wish to enjoy such as that. I fear that such tortures could make us more like the Cupiditas. What would be the point of our defeating such an enemy if we ourselves become that enemy?

“You all know that these three traitors have some skills but excellent stalking is not one that any of them has. I was able to see POND MUD long before he saw me, and I am not the most skilled tracker amongst us. KAVA-NUT is blind. ALT-R is a problem. I suggest we cut out his tongue and set free the three of them, again banishing them. We shall make it clear that they must leave our lands for good and any of them who returns will be killed on sight. Then, I would like our best trackers to follow them for a five day’s journey; to overhear and report back on the conversations amongst the three. I judge there may yet be things to learn from them, but we will not gather such intelligence while they are captive. We may gather it when they are free and do not know they are being followed.”

Shadow Walker said, “You say you do not want to torture them but you want to cut out ALT-R’s tongue?”

“Yes. I do think it is a necessary precaution. He lies as easily as you breathe, Shadow Walker. He is not using his gift of speech to help the Veritas spin a stronger weave that can hold us together under all circumstances. Rather, he uses his gift only to try to divide us and weaken us. It is, for him, a weapon of conquest rather than a tool of many thinking together. Without a tongue, I do not think he will be able to start any more wars and the quiet might enable POND MUD to reflect upon how he has been manipulated.” 

The tribe puzzled and dialogued for three days but in the end decided to follow the suggestion of She-of-Many-Paths. As could be expected, ALT-R found the prospect of losing his tongue a horror beyond belief. Yet, it was done. After ALT-R had recovered from the tongue extraction and subsequent cauterization, the three were given some small provisions and accompanied to the edge of the lands of the Veritas. Here, they were sent on their way and admonished never to return. The three marched east and then south and for five days, as had been planned, the trio were followed. On the fifth day, the Veritas trackers headed back and reported on what they had observed to She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives and She-of-Many-Paths. 

The first night, KAVA-NUT and POND MUD had gotten into an altercation around their campfire which had ended when POND MUD threw KAVA-NUT to the ground. KAVA-NUT’s skull had crashed into a sharp rock that had been placed to help contain the fire. There was not a lot of bleeding but in the morning, ALT-R and POND MUD discovered that he had died in the night. ALT-R had tremendous difficulty trying to manipulate POND MUD without the power of his tongue. Yet, he managed to convince him that they should split up. It seemed that ALT-R suspected that they were being followed though he gave no obvious indication of this. From drawings in the dirt near the campfire, it appeared that ALT-R and POND MUD were to rendezvous in three days time near the lands where the wondering Nomads of the South sometimes ventured. ALT-R cut POND MUD, apparently so that he could leave a false trail of blood which he did. In fact, POND MUD made a number of false trails. The trackers, still unseen by POND MUD watched him circle back to the rendezvous spot. POND MUD’s wound was festering and he began ranting with fever. Still, ALT-R did not show up at the rendezvous spot. POND MUD became incoherent. The trackers debated whether they should leave him to die or try to help him. At last, they approached POND MUD cautiously. 

“POND MUD. Do not fight. We will help you heal your wound. Then we must return to the Veritas.” 

“Go away. I’m waiting for ALT-R. He will cure me.”

“I am not so sure about that. But you need help now. Your wound has never healed properly. There are some ant hives nearby. We will use the soldier ants to stitch together your wound.”

POND MUD began to rant and rave. “ANTS! ANTS! NO ANTS! That will hurt! They are NOT Strong! It’s a lie! She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives sent you didn’t she?! I hate them! Leave me alone. ALT-R will come soon. Away! Away!”

“Just listen for a moment, POND MUD. You are very sick. We can use the pincers of the ants to bind the wound. I’ve done it before. Once they bite, you separate the head and it stays put thus stitching your skin together. Their venom hurts but somehow cleans the wound. It’s your best chance. Let us try to save you.”

“It’s her fault! I will kill you all! You’ll see! The Cupiditas will be here soon. I hate…I hate…no ants. No ants. I am very strong. I can still kill you! You’ll see! ALT-R will save me.” The trackers decided to back off and observe POND MUD from a safe distance. They hoped his mood might change later and they could still save him. But when they approached again a few hours later, POND MUD’s large, well-muscled lifeless body lay arms akimbo. They pried his right hand open and there clutched very tightly between forefinger and thumb was a crushed ant. This seemed an odd task to set oneself just as one lay dying. Perhaps, they speculated, he was tying to use the ant pincers to bind his wounds.  

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The trackers who had been following ALT-R saw signs that he entered a river but could not pick up his trail on the other side. They went both upstream and downstream for a fair distance but saw no sign that ALT-R had emerged on the other side. 

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives sighed. “So, two of our traitors are dead after all. And, the third we don’t really know anything about.” 

One of the trackers shook his head, “We are pretty sure he must have been swept away in the river. We saw clearly where he entered but there was no exit on the other side.” 

She-of-Many-Paths said, “No, I strongly suspect that he never intended to go to the other side. He went down stream a ways and may be returning toward us.” 

The tracker frowned. “But then he would have never made it to the rendezvous spot shown on the crude map he drew at the campfire. POND MUD seemed quite convinced that he was going to show up there. And save him. Somehow.” 

She-of-Many-Paths nodded. “Yes, I have no doubt that’s what POND MUD believed. But that was never part of ALT-R’s plan. He sent POND MUD just to draw you away from tracking him. I suspect he’s out there somewhere. You could go back to the river and check this side to pick up his trail.It may be too late. I am sorry now that I counseled this course of action for one of these three evil ones yet lives. We did destroy his worst weapon but now…I don’t know for sure, but this is what I strongly suspect: I think he will sneak back here and try to wreak some kind of revenge.” 

“As do I,” added She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives. “As do I.” 

dry animal gift dangerous

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———————————————————————

Magic Portal to Other Kingdoms

Pattern Language Summary (A Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation)

Try the Truth

Come Back to the Light Side

Your Cage is Unlocked

Happy Talk Lies

A Lot is not a Little

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

The Truth Train

Where do you Draw the Line?

Where Does Your Loyalty Lie?

My Cousin Bobby

Labelism

Wednesday

The Game

Starting Your Customer Experience with a Lie

Travels with Sadie: Teamwork

Travels with Sadie: Taking Turns

The Orange Man

The Forgotten Field

The Walkabout Diaries: Friends

The Walkabout Diaries: Ghosts of Flowers Past

The Walkabout Diaries: A Walk in the Park

An Open Sore from Hell

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Imagine All the People…

The Dance of Billions

 

Travels With Sadie 11: Teamwork

13 Monday Oct 2025

Posted by petersironwood in pets, psychology, Sadie

≈ 31 Comments

Tags

dogs, fiction, GoldenDoodle, life, pets, politics, short story, truth

Typically, I take Sadie for a walk in the morning and again in the evening. Last evening, Sadie went over to an aloe plant on one of our usual routes and stared at it. Then, she tried to stick her nose in it. I should mention that both edges of each aloe leaf have a row of fairly sharp thorns. 

(This is the aloe plant in question but I took the picture this morning in full daylight.)

She backed out and stuck her nose into another spot. I went over and saw that there were two tennis balls stuck near the very center of the aloe plant. I knew from her orientation and from her previous behavior that she was after what we call “The Special Ball.” Instead of being a monotone yellow/green, “Special Balls” have two colors. They are also slightly softer. I also have reason to believe that Sadie can smell the difference. 

The tennis club uses them for beginners under the theory they are easier to learn with. Being somewhat of a doubting Thomas, I wonder whether there is any empirical evidence of that. Anyway, I hypothesize that Sadie prefers them because they are chewier. It’s also possible that she prefers the smell/taste of them. They also provide a focus for our play.

For instance, if we have three “normal” tennis balls and one “Special Ball,” Sadie likes to keep the “Special Ball” in her mouth and chase after and “corral” the other balls with her body, head, and paws rather than catching them in her mouth. Alternatively, she drops the “Special Ball” and I pick up all four and throw them one at a time for her. I save the “Special Ball” till last. In this version, Sadie will catch each ball in turn and then immediately drop them—until the last throw. She likes to “keep” the “Special Ball” for a time. 

Anyway, on the night in question, I told Sadie I would try to get the “Special Ball” for her. She backed off and I tried to thread my hand in between the close-growing thorny leaves to retrieve the ball. Sadie couldn’t safely reach the ball with her snout, but I couldn’t safely reach it with my hand either. 

I told Sadie that I would look for a stick to use as a tool. You may think she has no idea what that means, but I have used the word “tool” in conjunction with many instances of trying to reach something I can’t otherwise get. I’ve applied the term to the tennis racquet, the grabber, a long stick, a rake, a back-scratcher, a crutch, and a net for the pool. In each of these cases, the “tool” has been used to get an otherwise hard to reach tennis ball. 

On a few occasions, I’ve used the word “tool” in other contexts; for instance, I’ve cautioned both dogs to stay away from the stove top and told them I don’t touch it directly because it’s hot and would hurt me. That’s why, I explain, I use a spatula. I’ve also applied the word “tool” to oven mitts and to knives for cutting. 

I have no idea how general her understanding of “tool” is, or whether, indeed, she has any at all. But she consistently backs off trying to reach an out of reach tennis ball when I tell her I will reach it with a tool. And she does that in many contexts. Tonight, she seemed to wait while I looked for a stick. The dusky light fooled my eyes into thinking I had spied a stout stick but closer examination proved it to be merely a holy semi-cylinder of Eucalyptus bark, far too flimsy for the job. I reported on all this ideation to Sadie as it occurred. 

In the semi-dark, this looked like a sturdy stick, but alas, no.

Then, I saw a slender bamboo pole. I doubted it was up to the task, but I gave it a try. Unlike most “store-bought” tools like a hammer or machete, I was quite aware that even pushing a tennis ball was going to be pushing this thin pole to its limits. I gave it a try. I gently rolled the ball from one of the center most leaves onto a more peripheral one and repeated this ploy again. Now, Sadie could see that the ball was within her grasp and she snatched it with her teeth. She carried it for a time in her mouth but then I told her I could carry it in my pocket and that I would give it to her when we got home. How much of my assurance she understood from words, from tone, and from body language I have no way of knowing, but she relented and let me store the ball in my pocket till we got home. Of course, I gave it to her once we got inside. 

Thin and light but sufficient.

On the walk back, I told her that we were a team and that working together to get something done was called “teamwork.” I have long been in the habit of recounting the highlights of our morning and evening walks to Wendy. I described our little adventure and again used the word “teamwork.”

Does Sadie understand the word “teamwork”? Probably not. Not yet, at least. But if she hears it in enough different contexts, I think her brain will begin to operate appropriately, at least statistically (somewhat like ChatGPT). She seems to understand a lot more than she did when she was one or two years old. 

I speak to her much as I would to another person, but I slightly exaggerate as I might if I were on a stage. I also try to use the same terms. For example, I sometimes tell her:  “I am going to work on my computer for a while now.” With a person, I might sometimes say, “Now, I’m going to use my laptop” or “I have to get on the MAC now.” With Sadie, I try to use the same wording and intonation each time. 

If I want her to accommodate me, I need to accommodate her.

 

Teamwork. 

——————

Author Page on Amazon

A Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation

Travels with Sadie 1

Travels with Sadie 2

Travels with Sadie 3

Travels with Sadie 4

Travels with Sadie 5

Travels with Sadie 6

Travels with Sadie 7

Travels with Sadie 8 

Travels with Sadie 9

Travels with Sadie 10

Hai-Ku-Dog-Ku

Sadie is a Thief

The Squeaky Ball

The “Lighty Ball” 

Turing’s Nightmares: Ceci n’est pas une pipe.

06 Monday Oct 2025

Posted by petersironwood in AI, family, fiction, story, The Singularity, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

AI, Artificial Intelligence, cognitive computing, fiction, short story, the singularity, Turing, utopia, writing

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“RUReady, Pearl?” asked her dad, Herb, a smile forming sardonically as the car windows opaqued and then began the three edutainment programs.

“Sure, I guess. I hope I like Dartmouth better than Asimov State. That was the pits.”

“It’s probably not the pits, but maybe…Dartmouth.”

These days, Herb kept his verbiage curt while his daughter stared and listened in her bubble within the car.

“Dad, why did we have to bring the twerp along? He’s just going to be in the way.”

Herb sighed. “I want your brother to see these places too while we still have enough travel credits to go physically.”

The twerp, aka Quillian, piped up, “Just because you’re the oldest, Pearl…”

Herb cut in quickly, “OK, enough! This is going to be a long drive, so let’s keep it pleasant.”

The car swerved suddenly to avoid a falling bike.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Geez, Brooks, be careful!”

Brooks, the car, laughed gently and said, “Sorry, Sir, I was being careful. Not sure why the Rummelnet still allows humans some of their hobbies, but it’s not for me to say. By the way, ETA for Dartmouth is ten minutes.”

“Why so long, Brooks?” inquired Herb.

“Congestion in Baltimore. Sir, I can go over or around, but it will take even longer, and use more fuel credits.”

“No, no, straight and steady. So, when I went to college, Pearl, you know, we only had one personal computer…”

“…to study on and it wasn’t very powerful and there were only a few intelligent tutoring systems and people had to worry about getting a job after graduation and people got drunk and stoned. LOL, Dad. You’ve only told me a million times.”

“And me,” Quillian piped up. “Dad, you do know they teach us history too, right?”

“Yes, Quillian, but it isn’t the same as being there. I thought you might like a little first hand look.”

Pearl shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Yes, thanks Dad. The thing is, we do get to experience it first hand. Between first-person games, enhanced ultra-high def videos and simulations, I feel like I lived through the first half of the twenty first century. And for that matter, the twentieth and the nineteenth, and…well, you do the math.”

Quillian again piped up, “You’re so smart, Pearl, I don’t even know why you need or want to go to college. Makes zero sense. Right, Brooks?”

“Of course, Master Quillian, I’m not qualified to answer that, but the consensus answer from the Michie-meisters sides with you. On the other hand, if that’s what Brooks wants, no harm.”

“What I want? Hah! I want to be a Hollywood star, of course. But dear mom and dad won’t let me. And when I win my first Oscar, you can bet I will let the world know too.”

“Pearl, when you turn ten, you can make your own decisions, but for now, you have to trust us to make decisions for you.”

“Why should I Dad? You heard Brooks. He said the Michie-meisters find no reasons for me to go to college. What is the point?”

Herb sighed. “How can I make you see. There’s a difference between really being someplace and just being in a simulation of someplace.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pearl repeated and exaggerated her dad’s sigh, “And how can I make you see that it’s a difference that makes no difference. Right, Brooks?”

Brooks answered in those mellow reasoned tones, “Perhaps Pearl, it makes a difference somehow to your dad. He was born, after all, in another century. Anyway, here we are.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brooks turned off the entertainment vids and slid back the doors. There appeared before them a vast expanse of lawn, tall trees, and several classic buildings from the Dartmouth campus. The trio of humans stepped out onto the grass and began walking over to the moving sidewalk. Right before stepping on, Herb stooped down and picked up something from the ground. “What the…?”

Quillian piped up: “Oh, great dad. Picking up old bandaids now? Is that your new hobby?”

“Kids. This is the same bandaid that fell off my hand in Miami when I loaded our travel bag into the back seat. Do you understand? It’s the same one.”

The kids shrugged in unison. Only Pearl spoke, “Whatever. I don’t know why you still use those ancient dirty things anyway.”

Herb blinked and spoke very deliberatively. “But it — is — the — same — one. Miami. Hanover.”

The kids just shook their heads as they stepped onto the moving sidewalk and the image of the Dartmouth campus loomed ever larger in their sight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Author Page on Amazon

Turing’s Nightmares

A Horror Story

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Destroying Natural Intelligence

Welcome, Singularity

The Invisibility Cloak of Habit

Organizing the Doltzville Library

Naughty Knots

All that Glitters

Grammar, AI, and Truthiness

The Con Man’s Con

The Agony of The Feet

23 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, essay, politics

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fiction, life, nature, politics, short story, Travel, truth, USA, writing

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Apparently, everyone else knew I was supposed to go head first. 

The instructions, however, were far from clear. 

And, although I didn’t know much, four billion years of evolution had taught me to take a few things rather seriously—such as: “Gravity is real!” And: “Don’t dive hard onto something head first.” So, the vague instruction to come out head first made no sense. 

I considered whether feet first seemed a sensible option. I decided “yes” but only for someone with a well-developed set of quads and a months of practice in balancing. Otherwise, a being such as myself would simply topple over and smash their head anyway.

Thinking about it as best I could, coming out butt first seemed by far the most sensible way to enter this world. 

The only problem was that I didn’t fit that way. So—I was at odds with authority figures such as my mother and her doctors before I was even born. 

After 72 hours of labor, I finally let them win that argument and came out head first. 

All of us could have been saved a lot of time and effort had the instructions been clearer to start with.

Is that why I ended up with a career in “Human-Computer Interaction” AKA “Human Factors” AKA “User Experience”? 

Probably not. 

More likely, it has something to do with the agony of the feet.

I inherited “flat feet” and that has been something of a life-long inconvenience. For example, beneath my ankle is another bone that sticks out much more than it does for other people. That bone often rubs against the side of my shoes and boots and that causes a source of both bruises and blisters. The lack of a working arch also contributes to my never being able to jump very well. In high school, when I was very fit, I was capable of jumping up high enough to touch the bottom of a basketball net. On my best days. 

I never got close to being able to jump and touch the rim, let alone being able to dunk the ball.

Nonetheless, I spent many years of enjoyment while on my feet—playing basketball, tennis, golf, table tennis, football, baseball, softball, racquetball, running, and walking. Running speed was never a strong point but I do have good eye-hand coordination and know how to concentrate and adjust my play to the opponent(s). As I sometimes like to say, I’be been violating expectations since 1945. I’ve enjoyed every sport I’ve ever tried. I’ve also seen many people with much more natural talent than I have enjoy sports less. That’s one reason I wrote “The Winning Weekend Warrior” which discusses the “mental game”; that is, “Sports Psychology.”

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I’ve also discovered some things about mitigating the negative impact of the feet I was born with. 

For one thing, I never buy shoes without trying them on. 

Another surprise is that all hard surfaces are not equally damaging. A basketball floor, a dirt track, an asphalt road, concrete, and steel all seem pretty damned hard. But it turns out that running on concrete sidewalks is much harder on my arches (and shins) than running on asphalt.
It also turns out that standing still for a half hour is harder on my arches than is walking for an hour.

I’ve learned a number of obvious things like: losing weight helps a lot! Strengthening the legs helps. Having good supportive shoes helps. Wearing cushy sox helps. Avoid (when possible) walking on stone, concrete, or metal. 

I’ve tried a number of supplements too. For me, the ones that seem to help slightly are: turmeric, ginger, and sour cherries. I find that B12 seems to worsen joint pain. Elevation seems to help and so does ice. Of course, the trade-off is that ice and elevation are typically things that limit mobility. 

I also use acetaminophen. I also use arnica gel which seems to help.

If there’s a real “solution” though, I haven’t found it. I was born with a bad design. 

Everyone is. 

Life is not, never was, and never will be about a “perfect design.” The environment keeps changing and organisms who adapt to the environment are always changing. That happens at the cellular level, the learning/behavioral level, and on a longer time scale, at the evolutionary level. 

Not only that: change begets change. If, in response to one change in the environment, you make one adjustment, you might cause another problem. It’s the same with the design of physical artifacts, software systems, user interfaces, social systems, games, strategies, tactics, poetry, stories…

One can use knowledge to shrink a design space. Of course, there is always the chance that by shrinking the space, you are deleting the part of the space that has the very best designs. It took evolution billions of years to create multicellular organisms. Our own human bodies have a large variety of different types of cells. Within many of those types there are sub-types and sub-sub types. 

Even within a sub-sub type, no two cells are precisely identical. They have different histories and they have different environments.

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The feet that are “bad” are only “bad” in a certain set of circumstances. I’m sure that there’s some circumstance in which it’s better to have flat feet and pronated ankles. For example, it’s probably only a matter of time before there’s a top-rated “reality TV” show dedicated to the implications of odd body parts. That would be a show I would get to try out for because of my feet.

Recently, I got hearing aids. That’s a whole different story for another time, but they fit quite snugly and comfortably behind my ears. But we’ve all seen people who look like Alfred E. Newman from Mad Magazine. What do they do about hearing aids? Do they need a different type? Do they tape them behind their ears? What would be the best genre for the show about unusual feet or ears? Doctor Odds? Opera? Shure-Vivor? America’s Got Metatarsals? 

Needless to say, we would have to make it extremely competitive and a little bit cruel. Maybe people with broken feet could run a race and the winner would live for another week and face a greater challenge the following week. The whole thing would be set in someplace chosen to be especially challenging for those with sore feet; e.g., uneven cobblestones, slippery concrete, on fallen tree trunks. Gorse, of course. Background music would be composed to add to the drama. Or, if the budget doesn’t permit human composers, we could ask an AI system to copy some Puccini or Bizet and change it just enough not be sued for copyright infringement. 

The formula importunes for interviews. They need to be short, shallow, but filled with rage or tears. “So John, when did you first learn that your feet were…what is the PC term here?…Different? Weird? Horrific?” Before each competition, the contestants would be introduced with fireworks and flashing lights along with extremely loud and echoing words of exaggeration. We should get the same kind of introduction once reserved only for “Professional Wrestling” but now common in introducing contestants in Golf and Tennis. Why not insanely dramatic foot-offs in “America’s Got Metatarsals!”

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It might be a bit expensive, but we can always cut costs to the bone. And then, just keep cutting!Who even needs real contestants? They can all be CGI. That, in turn, means there’s no need to limit contestants to the kinds of variations that actually occur. Flat feet? Okay. We’ve all heard about that. But how about flatiron feet? Elephant feet? Eagle feet! Grizzly bear paws! Duck-billed platypus feet! Amoebic pseudopods! Insect legs with pollen sacs! 

Why stop there? Mice with elephant ears! Elephants with mouse ears! Whales stalking their prey on the Savannah, cleverly camouflaged in the tall yellow grass!Tigers leaping on Great White Sharks! It’s no more out of place than putting a thoughtless human being in a safari hunt And, the best part of CGI players is that we can interview them regardless of species and regardless of their native language. At long last, we can entertain ourselves to death while the actual ecosystem around us is being destroyed by the greediest members of the greediest species who ever existed. 

What happens when greed exceeds needs and vital functions of society are left to the unfit, untrained, uncaring, uncouth, criminals? They’ll be about as effective as the Whales of the Serengeti and the Elephant-Eared Mice of Siberia. 

Or, me trying to dunk a basketball. 

————-

The Orange Man

At Least he’s Our Monster

D4

Essays on America: The Game

Siren Song

The Ailing King of Agitate

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Poker Chip

Peace

Imagine all the People

Dance of Billions

Where do you draw the line?

Trumpism is a New Religion

That Cold Walk Home

Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Destroying Government Effectiveness

The First Ring of Empathy

Travels with Sadie

The Walkabout Diaries: Life Will Find a Way

Author page on Amazon

A Day at the HR Department

18 Tuesday Feb 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, fiction

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fiction, life, politics, short story, truth, USA

Large eucalyptus trees in the early morning fog

I worked in Corporate America for many decades. Something that always brought a smile to my face were conversations like this snippet of dialog. 


“Hey, I know we’re supposed to meet at 9 am but I need to drop by HR and discuss something for a couple minutes.” 

A slightly more realistic but still insanely optimistic version which I also heard numerous times:
“Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes. I just need to deal with an HR issue.” 

The people who made these statements were not irresponsible. Nor were they stupid or uneducated. These were generally people with Ph.D.’s who had also worked in corporate America for years. They weren’t newbies by any means. How could their time estimates be so completely absurd? I suspect that part of the answer was that they had a very simple representation of both the problem and the solution in their head. Sometimes, a very complex problem can be posed quite simply. 

The “Four Color Theorem” comes to mind. This is a major reason I decided not to pursue a degree in mathematics. Once I heard the problem, I was immediately convinced I could solve it. Then, I couldn’t sleep for about three days because I couldn’t “turn off” thinking about the problem. Finally, my body took over for awhile. 

If even straightforward mathematic problems can be simply stated but difficult to solve, it might seem obvious that the same can be said for most issues involving people and organizations. That’s not to say people won’t try a seemingly simple solution. 

For a time, I worked as a “Knowledge Management Consultant” at IBM. On one occasion, we visited a well-known and successful pharmaceutical company. They wanted us to design a computer system that would make their chemists share information more readily across their organizational silos. They wouldn’t change the organization. They wouldn’t provide any changes to motivate people to share. They wouldn’t give any time or space for people to share. But they were convinced that we could simply plunk down a computer system and — voila! — knowledge would be shared across the silos! Talk about a miracle drug! 

AI generated image.

Like other organizational functions, the people in HR varied considerably in their skills and ethical standards. I met some very good people in HR. And, sad to say, I also met some who were not so good. But I never met any as inept as the one in this purely fictional story. 

Dealing With The Problem Child

Mr. Low-Cee belched loudly. He leaned back in his swivel chair, steepled his fingers, and put his feet up on the table. He felt a slight tickle in his amygdala. He had read somewhere that showing the bottoms of your shoes to someone from an Arab country was disrespectful. He scratched the tickle away with the stick of his well-used rationalization, Well, hell. Ishaaq isn’t really in an Arab country, is he? He’s right here in the God-Damned US of A and I’m doing him a favor anyway.

“So, Ishaaq, tell me more about this person you refer to as your ‘Problem Child.’ I’m sure we can find a spot for him somewhere. What are his qualifications, his background, his accomplishments?”

Ishaaq frowned. He pursed his lips. “That’s just it, Mr. Low-Cee. He doesn’t have any accomplishments in the usual sense of the word. He did manage to avoid the draft on numerous occasions. He managed to lose a ton of money that he inherited from his dad. He’s certainly famous. He’s sexually assaulted a lot of women. He’s cheated on his taxes and he ran a fake university and he ran a fake charity for kids with cancer. He managed to drive a casino into the ground financially and, as you may know, that’s not easy to do. They are legally set up with games designed to insure that the House wins on average.” 

Mr. Low-Cee belched again. He vaguely wondered whether he was allergic to blueberry muffins and whether anyone was allergic to blueberries. He thought: Lots of people are allergic to strawberries. But then, why not blueberries? Interesting. “So, Ishaaq, I’m curious. Have you ever heard of anyone being allergic to blueberries?”

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Ishaaq blinked a few times. “You mean…is our ‘Problem Child’ allergic to blueberries? I have idea. What does that…does it matter?” 

Mr. Low-Cee shook his head vigorously. “No, no. Never mind. Was this so-called ‘Problem Child’ a good student?”

Ishaaq sighed. “I really have no idea. He says he was but he won’t share any of his official records. I don’t see how he could have been. But who knows? He likes to talk a lot. That’s for sure. He doesn’t always make sense, but he makes a lot of faces when he talks and he shouts a lot. Maybe a clown?” 

“That’s an idea. Any other special qualifications? Anything?”

Ishaaq winced. “Well, he is a felon. So there’s that.” 

“A convicted felon and a serial rapist. Challenging. Challenging.” Mr. Low-Cee hammered himself in the sternum and let out the largest belch so far. “Ah! Now, I feel better! And, I had a thought! How about a position as Figurehead? He sounds perfect for that! I’ll tell you why it occurred to me. Just this morning, I had a surprise call from none other than Vlademort Putrid. He wanted to talk about installing Elong Muskrat as POTUS. Muskrat has the perfect qualifications. He’s run a couple major companies into the ground and, like ‘Problem Child’ avoided paying taxes and lied about test results. Elong wants to come in like gangbusters and steal all the information and money from America and destroy the country for Valdemort, but Elong has no interest in kissing babies, traveling to disaster areas, etc. Maybe your guy would be just right for that? I’m just spitballing here, but it might be a good fit. What do you think, Mohammed?”

Ishaaq tilted his head. “Mohammed?” He turned around to see whether there was someone else in the room. He turned back and frowned. “I’m Ishaaq, not Mohammed.” 

“Oh, right. Sorry. Ishaaq. Ask your guy whether he’s okay with…hey! I had another brainstorm. Don’t even tell him that he’s applying for Figurehead. He doesn’t sound like a detail-oriented guy. Just tell him we want him to be POTUS! Elong, you, me, and Vlademort will know he’s a Figurehead, but why tell anyone else? What do you think, Isaac?”

AI generated image

———————

Essays on America: The Game

Where Does Your Loyalty Lie

The Update Problem

Happy Talk Lies

You Bet Your Life 

Labelism

Wednesday

What About the Butter Dish?

Corn on the Cob

The Self-Made Man

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Poker Chips

The First Ring of Empathy

Tools of Thought

A Pattern Language for Collaboration

The Dance of Billions

The Four Color Theorem 

As Gold as it Gets

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 35 Comments

Tags

fantasy, fiction, karma, short story, story

“I’m not doing that while we’re driving, Adam! It’s too damned dangerous!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, Nikki, you do what the hell I say or … “

“LOOK OUT!” Nikki screamed.

Adam looked about him and wondered aloud: “Where the hell…?” He shivered from the cold. The fallen leaves were powdered with snow. He heard no-one. Saw no-one. “Where the hell am I?” he asked no-one. 

A faint path led to a briar bush and beyond that a faded, mottled blue and teal door stared out from a stone wall. Apart from that, the woods seemed to stretch forever in all directions. Adam mumbled, “I must be in some weird-ass dream. Whatever.”

After convincing himself it had to be a dream, he found himself acting more bravely. He strode up to the door and pulled the knocker up and let it fall upon the heavy door. Three times he did this, not really expecting any result, but what the hell. It was something to do, he reasoned. 

Adam jerked back as the door swung open. Inside, a huge room opened up. It was filled with light. He looked down at his well-polished rattlesnake boots. They gleamed more brightly than ever before. He squinted. He mumbled, “This is definitely the weirdest dream I have ever had.” 

Adam found a single chair. He sat. Before him, a hazy golden figure loomed. 

“Hello, Adam.” 

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Oh, my God! Adam had never heard such a resonant voice. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Generally, Adam considered himself to have been blessed with the gift of gab. But now, he was speechless.

“It’s all right, Adam. Everyone is taken aback at first. I’m St. Peter.” 

“What? The St. Peter? Like…like, I’m in heaven?” 

“Well, let’s not jump the gun, Adam. You and I need to have a bit of a chat first. Before we choose your next chapter.”

Then, just like, St. Peter popped the most dreaded question of every job interview: “So, tell me about yourself.” 

“St. Peter, I’m happy to meet you! I’m Adam. Adam Smith.” Adam smiled his most winning grin here. “Not the invisible hand guy, but my parents named me after him. And, indeed, Sir, or Saint, I am indeed a businessman. I did quite well. Took care of my bit…my bit of the business which was management quite well. Last year I was voted best dressed pim…pimple-free, and handsomest self-starter in all of LA. City of Angles! I should be here! I’m rich. I’m powerful in my own way. Know what I’m saying. Given your name and all that, I don’t know whether you’re interested — you got the whole ‘Saint’ thing going but your name is ‘Peter’ so — but anyway, if you are interested, I could fix you up real good if you know what I mean. I know you get a lot of applications for heaven and you can only take so many, but I’m a self-starter. Right? And I can help out. What do you say? Heaven. Okay?” Now, Adam smiled an even bigger grin. His cheeks hurt.

St. Peter asked, “And what is your idea of heaven, Adam?” 

“Well, easy! Kind of like on earth, but better. Everything gold! Unlimited wealth! Everything gold! No cops! What say? Am I in like Flynn?” 

St. Peter, and the bright room, and the door Adam entered all disappeared. In its place, Adam found himself on a street of golden mansions! He looked to his left — elegant mansions as far as he could see. He looked to his right — elegant mansions as far as he could see. Ahead of him was a well-appointed gold mansion with his name emblazoned on a huge sign. He walked up and sure enough, the front door opened at his touch. Inside, he feasted his orbs on the sight of gold floors, gold walls, gold furniture, and gold ceilings. His jaw literally dropped. “Now, this is more like it!”

Adam sat in a golden chair. He picked up the remote, also gold, and turned on the TV, also gold. It showed pictures of golden mansions. On every channel. “Wow! This place is cool! What do you think, now, Dad? Thought I’d never amount to anything. Hah! Here I am in heaven! Hear that, old man! I’m in fricking heaven!. A heaven of gold!” 

The next morning, Adam grew bored. And hungry. In his beautiful golden kitchen, beautiful golden dinnerware sparkled in golden drawers. No food though. It wasn’t clear exactly how this works, thought Adam. That’s all right. I’ll figure it out. He went out the front door and turned right; walked up the sidewalk to his neighbor’s front door and knocked. No answer. He peered in through an unfrosted window and saw that his neighbor’s interior was solid gold like his.

“No-one home, I guess” said Adam to no-one in particular. As he walked back out toward the street, he noticed for the first time that his neighbor’s mailbox matched his precisely. He walked over to at least find out what his neighbor’s name was. 

He read the name: ‘Adam Smith’. “What the hell?” said Adam.

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Then, he noticed that the address was also the same. 

666

Adam ran down the street, knocking on every door. 

No-one answered. 

Adam looked at every mailbox. 

They all said the same thing: “Adam Smith, 666 Streets of Gold.” 

He screamed. To no-one in particular, “What kind of heaven is this?!” 

He sat in a lump on one of the identical porches. He looked at his lap. He turned over his hands and noticed that scrapes and bruises decorated his white knuckles with red and blue.

Adam said, to no-one in particular, “I’ll just keep knocking on every door till I find someone.” 

In high school, Adam had not paid much attention in any of his classes, but math class he especially despised. He had no idea what the hell the teacher had been talking about when she started talking about infinity. It seemed like an abstraction with no meaning whatsoever in the world of Ghetin High School. 

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Now, however, Adam would have plenty of time to discover the true meaning of infinity.

Karma: A Horror Story

Who Speaks for the Dead?

Plans for us; some GRUesome

Ramming your Head into a Brick Wall Doesn’t Make you a Hero

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Author Page on Amazon

Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon for Spelling!

18 Monday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

America, Democracy, environment, fiction, school, short story, sociopath, sociopathic, truth, tyranny

 

two girls doing school works

Photo by Pragyan Bezbaruah on Pexels.com

 

 

[NOTE: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to characters alive or dead is purely coincidental.] 

“Children, let’s all clap our hands together. We want to congratulate Marcy for winning a Blue Ribbon for winning the Spelling Bee.” 

Donnie rolled his eyes. He had never liked Marcy. Her skin was dark, for one thing. Not as dark as a N——- but too dark to be a real person. Maybe she was “Port of a Rico” or something. Who cares, thought Donnie. Stupid spelling bee anyway. 

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The teacher, Miss Galore, noticed that while most of the kids in her third grade class were clapping, Donnie was grinding his teeth and pounding the table and rolling his eyes.

“Is everything all right, Donnie? You seem upset.” 

Donnie made himself smile pleasantly. “Oh, I’m fine, Miss Galore. Thanks for asking. I’m so pleased as punch for Marcy. What could be better than winning a Blue Ribbon for a Spelling Bee?”

“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re okay. But since you brought it up, there is another contest coming up. This month will be a Science Fair. Let me see the hands. How many of you would like to enter the Science Fair?” 

Everyone’s hand shot up, even Donnie’s. 

Then, the bell rang. But Miss Galore ran a tight ship. The children knew that even though school was basically over when the bell rang, it would be impolite to leave until they were dismissed by Miss Galore. 

“All right, class. I’ll tell you more about the Science Fair tomorrow. For now, Class Dismissed.” 

The kids all began chattering with their friends, and walking out toward the place were parents were lined up in their air conditioned cars. 

brown and white snake

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Donnie grabbed his books and walked over to Marcy. “Hi, Marcy! That’s really swell that you won the Spelling Bee! That Blue Ribbon looks very cool! Can I see it?” 

Marcy didn’t really trust Donnie, but his voice sounded sweet, so she handed him the ribbon. 

Donnie’s teeny hand shot out like a striking snake and he snatched the ribbon. He turned and dashed out of the room as fast as he could. He skidded around the corner and slapped into the door to the boy’s bathroom. He dashed over to the nearest stall, threw the ribbon into the toilet, and closed the stall door. Then, he flushed the toilet. He gathered his books back up, and opened the stall door slowly. He peered out. Only one other boy, Billy, was in the bathroom. Most of the kids were outside lining up to get picked up by their parents or chauffeurs, he thought. Billy, like an idiot, thought Donnie, is looking down at his thingie to make sure he doesn’t pee on the floor. Who gives a damn? So, Donnie pushed open the door to the boy’s bathroom. On the far side of the hall, only about ten feet away, Miss Galore and Marcy were both staring at him. 

Marcy’s bottom lip was trembling and there were tears on her cheeks. A big smile lit up Donnie’s face. That won’t do. He pushed his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to create a look of concern on his face instead. He had practiced for hours in front of a mirror, so that his look of concern was remarkably genuine looking. Now, he needed the voice to match.

“What’s wrong, Miss Galore? You look troubled.” 

Miss Galore took a few steps closer. “Marcy tells me that you took her Blue Ribbon.” 

“Oh, yes, I did look at it. It’s wonderful. You should feel very proud, Marcy!”

Marcy tried to make her voice sound strong, but at that, she failed. “You took my ribbon though! Give it back! I didn’t even get to show my Mom and Dad yet!” 

Donnie looked over. She was on the brink of squirting out more tears. Sort of like peeing on your own face, when you thought about it. I’ll never do that. What an idiot she was. If she didn’t want me to take her ribbon, why hand it to me, he asked himself. Stupid bitch deserved to lose her ribbon. 

“Miss Galore, I did look at Marcy’s ribbon for a moment. I gave it right back to her. What’s wrong? Did you lose it, Marcy?” 

“NO! I didn’t lose it! You took it!” 

“Oh, Marcy, I’m so sorry you lost it. We all lose things some times. As I’m sure Miss Galore will tell you — you have to be careful not to lose things —- especially things you like a lot.” 

Marcy was now screaming: “YOU TOOK IT! GIVE IT BACK! IT’S MINE!” 

Miss Galore noticed more kids were gathering round to see what was causing the commotion. She said calmly, “Donnie, can you please give me the ribbon?” 

Donnie looked affronted. “Oh, I don’t have it. I just had it for maybe — one minute — not even a minute — maybe fifteen seconds. And then, I handed it right back.” 

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Marcy held back her tears, but barely. “Why did you take it in the bathroom?”

Donnie put a look of puzzlement on his face. “Why did I go to the bathroom? I had to use the toilet, Marcy. Isn’t that why you go to the bathroom too?” 

Now, Miss Galore looked back and forth between the two children. Donnie didn’t look upset at all. But Marcy certainly did. She wondered whether Marcy could have simply misplaced it. “Do you think it might still be back in the classroom, Marcy? Maybe we should take a look?” 

“NO!” Marcy screamed. “I didn’t lose it. Donnie asked if he could see it and then he snatched and he ran out of the room and into the boy’s bathroom. I don’t have it. He has it.” She pointed at Donnie. 

“Well, I don’t have it. I will swear on a whole stack of Bibles. You can search me. Search me good. I don’t have your blue ribbon Marcy. I’m sorry you’re upset. I know it makes me angry too when I lose things. But you shouldn’t go blaming other kids when you lose something.”

“ARGH!” said Marcy. “I did not lose it! You took it! Make him empty his pockets, Miss Galore. I know he has it!” 

Miss Galore frowned. She couldn’t really do a thorough search of him. Maybe she could get one of the boy counselor’s to do it. She glanced around. Luckily, the teachers still stood out among the students. “Oh, Mr. Graham! Mr. Graham! Can you please come here a moment?”

Miss Galore explained the situation quickly. Mr. Graham frowned. “I’m not doing a strip search of the boy! How about this: write a note and ask the parents to search him when he gets home. Donnie, turn your pockets out.” 

“But Mr. Graham, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t steal her stupid ribbon. I looked at it. It’s — I have to tell you, it doesn’t look that nice up close. Her little medal isn’t even real gold. I don’t have anything bad in my pockets.” 

“Donnie. Do it now! Turn your pockets out,” said Mr. Graham who could pretend to be genuinely outraged over nothing and he genuinely didn’t like back-talk from students.

Donnie shook his head and appeared very reluctant, but he turned out all four pants pockets Except for a pack of Kleenex, and what appeared to be the wings of a dragonfly, his pants pockets were empty. Mr Graham nodded. “Thank you, Donnie. Hand me your backpack.” 

Donnie shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. Graham, my driver, Pom-Pom is going to be mad that I’m so late. It’s just books mostly.” He handed the backpack to Mr. Graham who searched the inside and turned each book upside down to see whether there was a ribbon hidden between the pages. He turned to Miss Galore. “Nothing.” 

“You see?” said Donnie. “I told you I didn’t steal her stupid ribbon! She’s such a liar! She probably cheated to win the ribbon in the first place!” 

Miss Galore wanted this to be over. “Okay. Okay. You two get over here. I want you to apologize and shake hands. Marcy, you apologize for accusing Donnie. And Donnie, you apologize for … not making sure that when you handed the ribbon back to Marcy, that she didn’t drop it. I don’t know. Anyway, just shake hands and I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’m sure your ribbon will turn up, Marcy.” 

woman s head on plate

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——————————-

That evening at dinner, when he had eaten his fill and Fred Senior seemed to be in a reasonably decent mood, and not yet drunk, Donnie casually said, “Say, Sir, did you know that there are N——-s at my school?” 

Fred Senior, sputtered through his mashed potatoes. “WHAT? Are you sure?” 

Donnie looked at the ceiling and pretended to think. “No, but I think so. She might only be half N——. I don’t really know. She has dark skin though. I never paid much attention but today she told a lie to try to get me in trouble at school.” 

“What the F*** are N****s doing at your school? I’ll talk to the Principal tomorrow and get this straightened out. Are they teaching you kids anything useful at that school?” 

Fred Junior said, “Yes, Father. I am learning algebra. That’s useful.” 

Fred Senior smirked and snorted. “Doesn’t sound like it, but the main thing is you’ll get into a good college.” 

Donnie added, “I’m going to win a Blue Ribbon in the Science Fair. I’ll find out more about it tomorrow.”  

Fred shook his head. “Christ! What rot. Anyway, how about desert?” 

Mary brought over a large dish and placed it proudly into the middle of the table. In it were little scoops of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew. There were slices of apple and banana as well as some ripe strawberries all arranged quite artistically to Mary’s eye. 

Fred Senior grimaced and shouted, “What the F### is that? Seriously, Mary, have you gone nuts? I asked for desert! Not a f###ing salad!”

Mary swallowed hard. The A/C was out. It was hot as hell on this day in mid May. She had remembered that fruits were so much better for you than pies, cakes, and cookies. She thought maybe it would nice to have a cool fruit salad on a warm and sultry night. She had thought. That was her problem. She should never think. She should just do whatever Fred tells her too. Her mind raced. What could she get to assuage her husband quickly. 

Fred Senior glared at her. He had stopped yelling though, thought Mary. His voice instead had that soft, sweet, syrupy sound that it made…whenever things were going to go terribly badly for her.

Fred Senior did indeed speak in a soft, controlled voice. “Children. Go upstairs now and do your homework. I need to have a little chat with your Mother. You know. Big People stuff. You wouldn’t be interested. Boring really. So upstairs. Go on. Up. Now.” 

The children pushed their chairs back and looked straight down at the ground. They had been taught that, even a glance at each other or at Mom or Dad could — would — be considered as a reproach to their Father. So, they all tip-toed up to bed and immersed themselves in a book; they learned that if they did it well enough, they could ignore the noises — whatever they were — that would be coming from the kitchen and dining room. 

All, but Donnie, that is. His procedure, was to go up with the other kids and then sneak back down and watch. It was one of the biggest risks he ever took in his entire life. But he couldn’t help himself. He loved the way Daddy made Mommy so weak and pathetic. It made his Daddy so much bigger and stronger and manlier. He would be that way some day. He would be just like Daddy! And, next week, I’ll win a Blue Ribbon in Science! 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

————————————————————-

Other blog posts: 

What about the butter dish? 

Inventing a New Color

There’s a pill for that

Citizen Soldiers: Part 1

Citizen Soldiers: Part 2

Citizen Soldiers: Part 3

After the Fall

Author Page on Amazon

 

True Believer

14 Thursday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

ethics, fiction, mystery, preacher, religion, short story

church altar

Photo by Dominika Gregušová on Pexels.com

“Walllll,” began Grandpa; as he always did, with a long pause and a sucking of false teeth as he held that final labial consonant, “yep, there marched time, quicker than you believe, conceive…”  (He had that oh-so-annoying habit: rhyming terminal words). The rain pitter-pattered on the canvas of the huge gray tent. Alabama’s like that: sunny days; drenching night-ways. 

He gobbled another greedy shot of Jack Daniels. Spat. Rolled eyes to skies.  (Oh, Lord, not me too.)

“…when Earth hung lower on firmament’s edge, and all of us’ns believed in the Testament.  AMEN!”

His glory days as child wonder preacher got juiced up with juice. Even in those glory days, that sad, dark, wooden church held a few dozen and that was on special occasions. But it didn’t matter. Because in his mind, he was preachering before the congregation of a magnificent cathedral if not God’s own thrown.

“A-MEN!” he repeated, as though this one AMEN was the one that would put us over the top and headed toward the Promised Land. He said ‘Amen’ as though his life depended on it, and perhaps he really thought it did.

I could see Light, Holy Light, rekindle in his eyes. “We BELIEVED! And, God so loved the World of Alabama that He gave his only begotten Son, who won, the One thing that is Done. AMEN!”  

Well, he foamed in fine form for this night, I thought, shaking my hanging head slowly, perhaps, showily. 

“And, Oh, Dearest God, what have you revealed, concealed from your flock, your true stock?” 

The crowd began to sway and have its say, “AMEN!” came the shout above the rain, explode the brain.

“The Ghost, the HOOOOOOOLY Ghost…will enter you and make Him Yours and He makes you His. Yeah! It’s the Way! Can I hear you say Yeah!?”

Shouts all around. Surrounded in sound, I found myself hoping for a Sign, a Line, a Find of Mind. I die. I see the Lie, but cannot fathom Why. Oh, Why?  

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_cAuthor Page on Amazon

If Only: short mystery about a chance meeting on Tower Bridge around 1900.

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man. 

 

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