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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: story

Who Knew Good Grades are an Aphrodisiac?

10 Wednesday Mar 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

captology, change, development, maturity, persuasion, psychology, story

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I’ve been thinking a lot about the psychology of change lately. For one thing, it’s quite relevant to the pivot projects (https://pivotprojects.org) 

I thought it would be fun to write a series of blog posts on experiences of personal change, either as a student, as a teacher, or more commonly, neither. It would be even more fun if readers shared a bit about their experiences of psychological change. Wouldn’t it be to everyone’s benefit if we understood the general principles of psychological change so that we can do a better job adapting to this ever-changing world? So, think of the example below as just “my turn.” And, then, it will be your turn. 

When I was in “Junior High School,” I was interested in some parts of school and not so much in others. I didn’t care about my grades but they were okay because at that point, I had a very good memory. And, then, one day near the end of eighth grade, I happened upon a book in our library that said good grades were important because — guess what? 

You’ll get into college? Nope. 

That you’ll get a better paying job? Nope. 

This book claimed a reward much more meaningful than either of those were at that point in my life. It claimed that if a guy got good grades, he’d be liked by the girls! Here was a secret formula to success with girls. All I had to do was get good grades!

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It did not even occur to me at the time that this claim probably had zero data behind it. It was likely written to induce guys to get good grades. I honestly don’t even think it said anything about what it meant for girls to get good grades. However, that may have been because the book was titled and aimed solely at boys. Of course, it could simply be the rampant sexism that is with us still — (sigh) — like that one guest who you know is about to barf on your rug because they’ve had too much to drink, and they live next door and they’re being obnoxious and you really just wish your neighbor would head home but they don’t. Instead, they stay until they disgust and insult everyone, barf on the carpet, then start screaming at you for serving cheap wine. That guest is what continued sexism & misogyny is like for most us. It’s also what all the other superiority BS is like for most of us. 

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

I had no such consciousness at the time. I just remember reading it and feeling as though I had discovered something akin to “The Fountain of Youth” or “El Dorado.” What’s amazing is that reading something in a book altered my behavior immediately and in a way that lasted for years. Getting girls to like me. That was a motivation that I could tie into. I think because getting girls was also tied into competition, it also changed me so that I viewed getting the best grades as winning. I already liked to win! Oh, yes. I was competitive. Overly competitive. But I had never thought of grades in school as any kind of competition. I got my grades based on how well I did and you got your grades based on how well you did. The two had been, in my mind, completely unrelated events. 

Until I read that passage. 

How many people did that passage impact? For me, even if it wasn’t based on any real data, it had a positive impact. I got good grades and I did have wonderful girlfriends. I got praise from my classmates too. I didn’t ever really feel the envy & hate portrayed in so many modern movies about high school. Maybe I was just too busy studying to notice. 

I wonder if the same passage could have impacted some people’s lives negatively? Maybe someone read that and they just found out that they had gotten their girlfriend pregnant. They might have read such a passage and thought it was a cruel irony. Or, perhaps they were gay. Or, maybe they had a learning disability and were already working their tail off to keep a C average. 

And, I suppose that the majority of kids my age who read it might have known it was BS from the git-go. On them, it had little or no effect.

Even if I am the only one to have ever taken it seriously, it is pretty remarkable nonetheless that my behavior could be pushed into a new state simply by reading a sentence or two in a book.  

See? There is hope for humanity!  

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

————————————————————-

This essay describes some of the blockages to change; in particular, what is sometimes called “cognitive dissonance” In general, our decisions, unlike those of classical economic theory, are path-dependent. https://petersironwood.com/2019/07/18/essays-on-america-wednesday/

This post talks about how our habits can be so strong that we literally do not see what is right in front of us. https://petersironwood.com/2017/02/25/the-invisibility-cloak-of-habit/

The link here is to thoughts on how hard it is to face up to realizing that we’ve been fooled.
https://petersironwood.com/2020/06/28/essays-on-america-happy-talk-lies/

Author page on Amazon.

Naughty Knots

03 Wednesday Mar 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

fiction, Kleins Bottle, Science fiction, story, tale, topology

Dr. J. Clarence Thompson shuffled thorough his unfolded shirts. He glanced at the clock. “Crap!” he muttered, “I’m going to be late. Next time, I’m going to put my shirts away so I know where to find the one I want.”

He muttered to himself a lot since he had been “retired” from his job teaching topology at nearby Kansas State University. “Damn. I’m going to be late for my tee time. Maybe I should call…hold on. Here we go.” At last Dr. J. Found the green and gold Hawaiian shirt he had been looking for. Some of his other golf shirts restricted his movements. He had enough trouble staying in the fairway. “What the hell? What’s with this shirt.” 

Let me explain. Dr. J. Had a habit of removing his shirts so that at least one, and sometimes both sleeves were inside out. This time though, the shirt was twisted in some very odd way. Like the whole shirt was inside out inside one of the sleeves which was itself inside out.

“This kind of crap always happens when you’re in too much of a damned hurry. I should have just gotten up earlier. Or, skipped breakfast. But that never works. What the hell is wrong with this shirt?” 

Without really meaning to, he scrunched his eyebrows together and clenched his teeth. He hated being late for a tee time. He snorted ruefully. “Shouldn’t really be that hard for a topology professor. Ex-professor,” he reminded himself. “This is ridiculous. The shirt…Okay…the sleeve is inside the shirt but he shirt is inside the sleeve that the…Hey, Jenni…Oh, crap.”

Photo by Frank Cone on Pexels.com



He had promised himself to stop talking to his deceased wife. Or, to use her name any more than necessary. Every time he thought of her, it pained him. Stupid skiing accident. He pursed his lips together tightly. She liked golf. At least that’s a safe sport. You don’t break your neck running into a tree. 

Dr. J. thought back to a time he had landed in the woods a few yards off the fairway. He had decided to try hitting the ball toward the hole rather than taking the easy way out and chipping it out onto the fairway. A wasted shot, he had thought. Instead of streaming through the small gap, the golf ball had hit a tree and whizzed back inches from his head. He now lay 40 yards farther from the hole. But he tried it one more time with exactly the same result. Finally, he had “taken his medicine” and chipped out into the fairway. Triple bogey despite some nice putting on the green.

“All right then. Let’s take this one step at a time. I pull the sleeve out this way…and … WHAT?!” 

Dr. J. stared at where his left hand should be. It. Was. Not. There. But…there was no blood. “How could there be? I haven’t cut himself. But where the hell is my hand!? Call 911? And say what? They’ll put me in the looney bin for sure. It doesn’t feel like my hand is gone. But maybe it is a phantom limb phenomenon. No. It can’t be gone.”

He snapped his fingers. He felt his fingers snapping. But there was no sound. “There!” he shouted joyously. “I hear it. But…how can it take that long for the sound to get here.” 

“I need a beer. Jennifer? Can you… oh crap, that’s right. Stupid skiing accident. Damn her! How could you be so thoughtless?! Beer? I need whiskey. I will pull my hand out with my other hand. Then, I will call Carl and tell them I can’t make it. Twisted my ankle. I’m not going to tell them about … this. I just need to calm down and think this through. What is that damned racket? No wonder I can’t think straight.”

In the background, CNN was interviewing some random “man on the street” and Mister Random was saying: “He’s the only politician who tells it like it is. He doesn’t pretend to be all politically correct. You know? He’s truthful.”

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com



The reporter put the mike near his own mouth and asked, “How do you know he’s truthful?” 

“He’s told us! He told us to watch out for — no offense — but you work for the fake news! You guys are all liars. He’s the only source of truth. It’s refreshing.”

Dr. J. glanced at the TV and saw the reporter trying hard not to let his feelings show on his face as he asked again, “And the way you know he tells the truth is that he says he tells the truth?” 

“Yeah, exactly!”



Dr. J. had long ago discovered that when you were absolutely stuck in solving a problem, that it often helped to think about something completely different for a few moments. He shook his head at the hapless fool being interviewed on TV. A vivid picture formed itself in Dr. J.’s imagination. He saw a large orange “picture” of a Klein’s Bottle. Of course, it wasn’t really a picture, just a children’s illustration. Of course, the “logic” of the interviewee wasn’t really a Klein’s Bottle. It was simply a circle that fed itself forever. The hapless fan had no more idea how foolish his circular reasoning was than the eddy at the end of an oar worries about … well … anything. Water doesn’t worry. It is being pushed about by external forces. In the same way, this “fan” had  been manipulated into going in a circle. Dr. J. recalled an illustration in a Scientific American article he had read about ants following pheromone trails. Normally, the ants coordinated marvelously with each other and found their way home without a hitch.

But you could turn them into a death cult. Lay a circular trail of pheromones and the ants would follow each other in a circle until they starved to death. 

“Okay, enough of that. Back to the problem at hand.” Dr. J. had begun muttering to himself again. “How do I get my hand out? Maybe if I reach in … like so … from the other side.” 

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

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Carl had worked hard to convince the rest of his threesome to come with him. Carl was popular but Dr. J. was difficult for most people to deal with. But they did come, because, as Carl explained, we look out for each other at this age. It wasn’t like Dr. J. to simply forget about their regular Thursday early tee time and not even call. There was no knock at the door, but the apartments at Happy Acres afforded only a few places to hide an extra key. Carl opened the door. Something, he was sure, was amiss. But what? 

They searched the apartment and found no note, no hint of where he had gone. Carl also noted that Dr. J. had left the thermostat set at 72. He would never leave it that hot when he was out and about.

After an hour’s search, they called the police who very politely explained that if they wanted to file a missing person’s report, they could, but that, in his experience, the person always turned up shortly and most of the time, they turned up alive. Not always, but almost always. In any case, police policy forbid them from searching for him or indeed, doing any real investigative work for 24 hours. 

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

Carl excelled at being persuasive. After all, he had been in the 100 percent club his entire career at Megamax. But he could not move the police officer into action. He put down the phone and realized he had no idea what to do either. He felt sure something was wrong, but he couldn’t really put his finger on anything in particular. Dr. J’s house looked as it always did. It did seem odd, come to think of it, the way that shirt is all folded in on itself.

“Hey, guys, come take a look at this weird shirt.”

Ben put a very serious look on his face and said, “That’s it! He’s in the pocket of his own shirt!”

Then, he and Avram began laughing uproariously.

Carl joined in the fun himself. But he still persisted. “Okay, okay, very funny. But it — I mean if you were going away for a week or two, would you leave your shirt lying on the floor, all twisted up like this?”

Ben chuckled. He could see a great opportunity to ham it up. And in the process, he’d jolly Carl out of being worried over nothing.

“Yeah, here, I’ll solve the mystery. The mystery of the twisted shirt! Watch this folks! I, Ben Sherlock, will place my hand into what appears to be an ordinary shirt!”

That turned out to have been a huge mistake. As were all the successive rescue attempts. 

Photo by Plato Terentev on Pexels.com

——————————————————————

What could be better? A horror story.

If Only.

That cold walk home.

How did I get here?

Trumpism is a new religion. 

Author page on Amazon

I Can’t Be Bothered

26 Friday Feb 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

afterlife, demon, devil, fiction, heaven, hell, purgatory, religion, Saint, story

“ I CAN’T BE BOTHERED!,” the great voice boomed. 

Then…POOF! … just like that, the golden light blew out and was replaced with a large dark cloud. 

Ted found himself all alone on an island. All about him, the roar and crackle of the storm made it hard to orient himself. The rain, if it could even be called ‘rain’ tore at his skin so hard, it was as though his fancy dress shirt and tailored pants didn’t even exist. “This must be hail,” he muttered to himself. The sound of his words were blown away by the gale before they even reached his ears. 

“Where in God’s green earth am I? How did I get to this forsaken island? I must have fallen and smacked my head. I don’t know where I am or how I got here.” 

Some of the neurons in Ted’s brain whispered that they knew. Some even half-raised their hands, much as a shy third grader in a new class might when he or she was the only one who thought they knew the answer. But Ted had spent a life-time lying to himself. He was pretty damned good at it by now. So, the neurons, just shook their virtual heads, put down their timid hands, avoided looking at any of the other neurons. 

Ted began to shiver violently. He realized he was cold…damned cold! Starting a fire was completely out of the question, but maybe there was shelter somewhere on this Godforesaken isle. At last, he found two rather large rocks and wedged himself between then to wait out the storm. 

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

The rain, or hail, or sleet or whatever it was splattered everywhere. His clothes, despite the absurdly high price he had paid, seemed completely useless at holding any warmth. He closed his eyes and tried to understand how the hell he had gotten here. He thought back. It seemed a million years ago.

“Okay. Okay. I was on my yacht. It was actually a sunny day. No sign of a storm. Fairly calm seas. Isn’t there a saying about calm before the storm? But…? I was lying on the deck. And … and what’s her name was beside me. Susie or Sue or Susan or something like that. We had just done it and I was enjoying a martini. Yes. A martini. Nice and cold. And then…? And then I finished my first martini and was going to get a second. Sue or whatever — she asked — no I asked. I’m a nice guy. I asked her if she’d like one. She said, no, but she’d like a glass of red wine. Merlot if I had it. 

I sighed. “We’re drinking martinis.” That should have been obvious to her, but she was too stupid to notice what I wanted I guess. I told her it was cold vodka or nada. I thought that was pretty clever because it kind of rhymed. But she again asked for wine. Now, if the whole crew had been on board, sure. I’d have one of them open a bottle. But it was just the two of us. I said, “I can’t be bothered.” Thing is, I didn’t even know where the damned corkscrew was. My chicks liked hard liquor like I did. 

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Ted frowned. He realized, he didn’t really know what they liked. He just assumed they liked martinis. Who wouldn’t? But then, he tried to recall what had happened? He had gone below to get another martini. He thought back. It was a smooth walk to the freezer. No storm. She yelled something down to him, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Anyhow, it didn’t matter. But there was no storm. Not then. And why didn’t Suzie join him on the island? Where the hell was she? She must have been blown overboard. For that matter, where is my damned yacht? Merde! Talk about a bad day. I lost my lay and my boat. He gritted his teeth in anger. 

Just as well. If Sally were here she would undoubtedly be blaming me for this hellish weather. It just blew up out of nowhere. “It’s not my fault!” he told the universe firmly. Ted snorted. It felt good to say that so he said again, but louder.

“It’s not my fault! You hear that, universe? Screw you! And put me back on my yacht!”



Ted pictured the yacht in his head. An image came to mind of a safety beacon. He wondered how it worked. He had always let André take care of it. What had André once said? “You really should learn ow zees work.” Ted recalled snorting as he shot back, “I can’t be bothered.” 

“Concentrate you A-hole,” he said to himself and tried to recall what happened next. But it made no sense. I had just opened the fridge to get the vodka. Vavoom! And just like that, the whole frigging boat had … disappeared. Or, at least disappeared for Ted. He opened the door and the refrigerator light must have gone incandescent. Like a giant flashbulb. Maybe a freak storm came up and lightning struck and that explains the bright light. I was shocked. That’s all. Electricity knocked me out. So, I fell down, hit my head and I must have been shipwrecked. And while I was unconscious, I dreamed about some weird dude being there talking to me about my life. He had promised to look into my “case” as he called it in my dream. 

“Concussion” Ted said to himself. “I must have suffered a concussion. It’s that damned Susan’s fault. If she just would have been okay with a martini like me, none of this would have happened.” 

Several of Ted’s neurons cast sidewards glances at each other. None dared speak aloud though. Ted had long ago beaten the crap out of all his truth-teller neurons. He tried to think back to what this imaginary dude had said. The chattering of his teeth made it hard to concentrate. But the dude’s name was some weird made-up rock-and-roll name like ‘Saint Peter.’ 

Photo by Darius Krause on Pexels.com

“Yeah,” muttered Ted. “He said he would look into my case. And then he said: ‘I can’t be bothered.’ What the hell kind of a thing is that to say?” 

The words for some insane reason echoed in his brain. Whenever the crazies at his club had asked why he never wore as mask, he’d always looked at them like they were garden slugs and said, “I can’t be bothered.” 

Ted turned and craned his neck to look out through a small gap in the rocks toward the sky. No sign of clearing. 

It looked to Ted very much as though this storm would last forever.

For once, Ted was right. 

Saint Peter had thought about reviewing his case. But he just couldn’t be bothered. 

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

——————————————-

As Gold As It Gets

Do Unto Others

What Could be Better? A Horror Story

If Only…

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

That Cold Walk Home

Masklessness is not Manliness

Author page on Amazon

Grandpa Fed the Animals First

15 Monday Feb 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

animals, essay, farm, farming, rural, story

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Grandpa fed the animals first. 

Empathy.

Practicality. 

Empathy.

Practicality. 

Two very different things. But perhaps they are different only in the very short term. 

When you try to do something that benefits you in some practical way, for best results, use empathy for best results. 

If you are a farmer and eat your own breakfast first, you’ll feel sluggish and you will not be so tuned in to your animals. Sometimes, you might not even do it till much later in the day — when you get around to it. When you feel like it. And sometimes, you won’t feel like it at all. And, the animals might go hungry. But what the hell? They’re just animals, after all. 

Feed them a little less. Feed them a little more irregularly. They’re only animals, after all. 

You may think you are being “practical” but are you? Are you really? Is it so hard to see that caring — really caring about your animals will tend to keep them healthier and easier to deal with? 

Maybe the same thing could be said for the animal in you. Is it possible that sometimes you get so busy with things that you forget to eat right or get enough exercise or take enough time to pet your cats or tell your loved ones that they are your loved ones? Of course, there are emergencies where you do have to go without sleep, or food, and maybe you cannot even see your friends. But is your whole life really just one long emergency? Do the sirens ever stop blaring? Do the drums of war ever stop beating?

My mother’s father and my mother’s mother were both brought up on farms. Many people lived on farms back then. 

My grandfather was practical, and empathic. He was an engineer. He was also an artist. 

He worked hard. And so did my dad. But neither of them felt obligated to work until well into the evening and take work-related phone calls on the weekends.

Things change. I get that. But are we so busy making a living that we forget to make a life? 

Feed your animals first. 

————————————

What are we rushing toward? 

Corn on the cob 

Author page on Amazon

Skirting the Turtle

https://petersironwood.com/2020/02/28/essays-on-america-addictions/

The Great Remembering

24 Sunday Jan 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

collaboration, cooperation, fiction, leadership, legend, myth, story, Veritas

Photo by Julia Volk on Pexels.com

Trunk of Tree had been in a foul mood. Hunger made his belly growl. He had had terrible luck even trying to track a deer. But the sight of these two Veritas, well-known to him, and the smell of cooking venison lightened his mood considerably. He said none of that, but instead asked again how they found him.

Cat Eyes explained quickly to Trunk of Tree that they were near her village. She explained that a feast was being prepared right now in honor of the knowledge that had been gained from decoding a substantial part of the great library that had been recently discovered. The Veritas had split up decoding the numerous tomes in the library. It was far too much for any one person although, among all the Veritas, Cat Eyes knew the most of what had been garnered by the people. She had been sharing much of what she learned with Tu-Swift. Now, she explained, a great feast had been arranged and the afternoon was to be spent eating and listening to the lessons that had been gleaned. In the evening, the people planned to reflect on the totality of this information in a great dialogue. 

Cat Eyes explained all this to Trunk of Tree as they took the short hike back to the place where he had emerged from the hidden cleft in the rock wall. Tu-Swift and Cat Eyes marked the place with broken branches and a small rock cairn so they could be sure to find it later.

Photo by nicollazzi xiong on Pexels.com

Then, the trio strode back to the center place of the Veritas across the Mountain. Cat Eyes and Tu-Swift kept having to stop for Trunk of Tree to catch up. At last, Cat Eyes said, “Trunk of Tree. All you all right? You are limping. You are wounded? What happened? I see a bandage and blood. Were you attacked?” 

Trunk of Tree’s mood darkened again. He did not want to explain how he had wounded himself through his anger and carelessness. “I’m fine. Just a scratch.” He swallowed hard. The truth was that the wound was not healing all that well. He grimaced and tried to keep up with the youngsters so they wouldn’t ask any more about his gash. 

The reappearance of Cat Eyes caused more of a stir than usual when people noticed that Trunk of Tree was with them. When he explained briefly how he had come here, the Veritas from the other side of the mountain furrowed their brows. How could a passage out of their valley exist so near that no-one had discovered? Even Trunk of Tree could perceive the skepticism on their faces. He explained that he had only come across the path by sheer accident born of desperate hunger pangs. Tu-Swift explained to the small group how he had marked the trail and three of them jogged off to see for themselves. 

Soon, Tu-Swift, Cat Eyes, and Trunk of Tree were seated on overturned tree trunks. People kept coming to Cat Eyes with small questions about the upcoming feast. As she answered their questions, she simultaneously pulled up the pant leg of Trunk of Tree, ignoring his protestations that nothing was wrong with him. He was immensely powerful and could have easily kicked her away. Although a part of his mind pictured that, some more fundamental part seemed to know that his leg was more important than his pride so he let her unwrap the bandages. 

When she did so, her nose wrinkled up immediately. She glanced at Tu-Swift who noticed it as well. The wound stunk. Just then a young warrior came up to Cat Eyes meaning to ask her opinion about her role in the upcoming knowledge exchange. Cat Eyes answered curtly and then begged the young warrior to bring her the pouch of blue-green mold that sat in a dark corner of Cat Eye’s cabin. Soon, Cat Eyes was applying the mold to the oozing wound of Trunk of Tree despite his objections.

“I already put yellow dock and plantain on it,” he protested. 

“Yes,” replied Cat Eyes, “and that is good. This is even better. We learned about it from one of the many books in the library. There are many things we learned from those books and you will hear about many of those things tonight. I wish all of the Veritas were here to learn what we have decoded in the last few months.” 

Cat Eyes nodded as she noted that the sickness had not spread much from the original injury. She bound up the wound again. She glanced at Tu-Swift. She slowly shook her head. “It’s amazing how much of a great gift we have now from our library — and all the knowledge put there by our ancestors. And to think…it was there when my mother’s mother’s mother lived … and we had no idea what it was. Until now.”

Now, she turned to look at Trunk of Tree. She smiled. “You will see later today, Trunk of Tree, some of the things we have learned. She tilted her head. “There are things in there about fighting and strategy as well as medicine.” She paused, smiled and went on:  “And, to use your imagination to make yourself happier and solve problems — not simply as a tool for hurting yourself.” 

The eyes of Trunk of Tree widened thus confirming her hypothesis. 

Trunk of Tree reddened. Cat Eyes reached out her hand and gently touched his shoulder. “It’s a tendency all of us have, Trunk of Tree. There’s no reason to feel embarrassed. 

An awkward silence grew between them. She looked at Tu-Swift and back to Trunk of Tree. 

Tu-Swift took a deep breath. “For example, when Cat Eyes came to visit our Center Place, I ran off to see her because…well, because I … because I love her.” Now Tu-Swift reddened as well. “Of course, everyone does. I … especially do. But then, Suze died shortly after and I made myself crazy thinking I had somehow been responsible. I didn’t cause her death. That plague though was brought to us intentionally by the Z-Lotz. They’re the ones I should seek revenge on and not on myself. He looked at the face of Trunk of Tree very carefully, the way he imagined that Many Paths would do if she were here. 

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

“I can tell you this, Trunk of Tree. I’ve known Shadow Walker all my life. As have you. And, we know Eagle Eyes as well. They are both good people. They will do … whatever they think is best for the Veritas … and for all the people.” Tu-Swift let this thought sink in through the thick skull of Trunk of Tree. He surprised himself by his next words. “Sometimes, we must be apart from those we love. It’s always difficult. But don’t make it worse by imagining things that you know are not true. I don’t know why, but Eagle Eyes likes you. Surely, you must know that.” 

Cat Eyes nodded solemnly. “That’s right. Shadow Walker & Eagle Eyes — these are people we can all trust. Trust is fundamental. You’ll hear more about that at our feast. The destruction of trust is what led to the destruction of … of civilization.” 

Trunk of Tree frowned. “Civilization? What are you talking about?” 

Cat Eyes sighed. “Just listen to our stories tonight. It’s … there were many people … and many wondrous things … but the people lost the one thing more important than all the others.” 

Tu-Swift saw the tears welling up in her cat-irised eyes. “They let their greed, fear, and hate grow … and their love for each other … and for all life … they let that decay … and when it did, it all fell apart. The words that people said came to mean nothing. All trust was lost. And, Trunk of Tree, when all trust was lost, all the energy of the people was put into weapons. Killing sticks were replaced by even less honorable weapons that killed hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands. The people thought that somehow, if they hurt others enough, they themselves would live forever, not as part of the great tree of life, but as something separate and apart, as hard as the mountains and as mighty and as immortal. So did the people come to think. 

“The times came of great killing. 

“The times came of great forgetting.” 

The voice of Cat Eyes became stronger and though she spoke to Trunk of Tree, all the people nearby heard her and drew near to her. 

“Now, we are beginning the time of great remembering;

“The great remembering of who we are; 

“The great remembering of what we are not; 

“The great remembering of what makes us a whole people; 

“The great remembering of the importance of truth and trust; 

“The great remembering of the horror and sorrow that comes of the many being misled by the few; 

“The great remembering of what we could become instead; 

“The great remembering that each of us is ourselves but one marvelous leaf on the great abiding tree of life; 

“The great remembering that we cannot make ourselves into something separate and forever by destroying the tree that sustains us.”

Cat Eyes stood and took the hands of Tu-Swift. 

Drums began to play and the people began to sing. 

Cat Eyes and Tu-Swift began to dance. 

All the people began to join in the dance. 

———————————————————-

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

Index to a Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation

Roar, Ocean, Roar

The Only Them that Matters is All of Us

Author Page on Amazon

Do Unto Others

29 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

afterlife, fantasy, fiction, heaven, hell, shortstory, St. Peter, 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 lay on the cold marble floor. She thought she must have suffered the worst hangover in the history of humanity because she had no recollection of how she got here — or what ‘here’ even was. Somewhere nearby, lights — very bright lights — shone against the marble floor. She opened her eyes to behold a scene of opulence and hard-edged beauty.

But, if this really is a hangover, she asked herself, where’s the headache? Where’s the infernal dryness? On the other hand, she reasoned that she still had no recollection of how she got here. Was she “on assignment” as Adam called it. Or…she had been with Adam. He had asked her…they were in a car. She scowled and mumbled, “That bastard must have drugged me.” 

She got to all fours. Then, she stood, carefully splaying her arms out in case she lost her balance. To her amazement, she was not dizzy or off-balance in the slightest. Ahead of her, an empty hallway seemed to beckon her. She felt the answers to her many questions were at the end of it.



She walked gingerly at first, but soon gained confidence that somehow, there were no ill effects from whatever drug her pimp had slipped her. She looked ahead and whispered in a shaky voice, “Hello? Is anyone there?” 

“It is I,” boomed a voice. 

“Holy Mother of God, man! Don’t scare people like that! You’ll give someone a heart attack!” 

“Keep looking and you will see me. I am not, regrettably, the Mother of God. Just St. Peter. I’m pleased to meet you, Becky.”

“Becky? No-one’s called me that … for years. Not since….” Her voice trailed off. Who are you really?”

“Oh, I assure you Becky. I really am St. Peter, Becky. Do you mind if I call you that.” 

Silently, Becky shook her head. “I don’t mind. It’s just…I think there’s been a mistake.” 

St. Peter’s face had become clearer to her now and she could see the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile. “Mistake? Well, no, I don’t think so. We don’t really do the whole ‘mistake’ thing. You know?” 

“Well, if you’re the St. Peter who greets people coming to Heaven, then, I’m sure there’s been a mistake. I am a … or … I was a … you know … ‘working woman.’ I’ve known for a long time I was headed to Hell and … check your data base or your Excel Spreadsheet or whatever it is you people do and send me on my way. Let’s get it over with.” 

Becky, aka Nikki, watched St. Peter as he tilted his head this way and that as though to get a clearer, or deeper, look at her. She sighed. She didn’t mind when her ‘clients’ stared at her. She kind of enjoyed it in a way. She could relate to the pleasure that they were feeling because of her. But this felt different. Uncomfortable. Weird. As though he wasn’t staring at her body at all, but into her soul. No-one looked at her that way. Certainly not Adam. 

“Hey, St. Peter. What happened to Adam? Is he okay? Or is he dead too?” 

“Ah, well, yes Adam. Adam Smith. He is indeed dead. All taken care of. Was he your friend?”

“Friend?! Hardly! I mean, I thought he was for a time. He pretended to be….” Becky’s voice trailed off. “Look, is this like — are you free therapy or something? Can we just get going on the whole ‘Hell’ thing?” She paused. “Please.” 

“All right. Off you go then. Nice meeting you, Becky.” 

Suddenly, Becky found herself surrounded by deafening noise. Flashing lights. The smell of gunpowder. And burning flesh. She heard someone call her name.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com



“Becky! Give me a hand with this one! Hold this compress hard so he doesn’t bleed out. Simon! Timothy! Help me get him onto this stretcher!” 

Somehow, Becky knew what to do. Despite her best efforts, some of the man’s blood seeped onto her hand. It didn’t matter. She was damned well going to make sure he lived. “Come on, mister! Don’t go blank on me! What’s your name? What’s your name, soldier? Hey, Hey! Do not glaze your eyes over. Look at me! What’s your name?” 

The man locked his eyes on hers. “Tom.” 

“OK, Tom. Listen to me. We’ll have you back in the OR in no time. I know it looks bad and feels bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse. You’re going to make it. I have no doubt whatsoever. Here. Put your hand on mine. We’ll work together to keep you together.” 

Simon and Timothy held the wooden handles and picked their way over the broken ground. At last they came to the Red Cross Tent. On this day, like the others, she did her best to save lives, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. It seemed as though she had been a triage nurse forever. 

Endless cold, endless danger, the stale food and the staler jokes. 

Becky could not imagine anything that would give her more pleasure or allow her to feel more fully alive. 

—————————-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Tree of Life

Good Morning!

The Isle of Right

Comes the Dawn

Listen! You can Hear the Echoes of your Actions. 

Roar, Ocean, Roar!

Ah, Wilderness!

Blood-Red Blood

Mother’s Day

Comes the Reign

Life is a Dance!

A Cat’s a Cat and That’s That!

Is a Dream?

The Sunless Sunday of Faith

Camelot is in your Heart

The Impossible

The Bubble People 

Race, Place, Space, Face

A Suddenly Springing Something

Author Page on Amazon

As Gold as it Gets

28 Monday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 34 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.” 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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

Shooting the Moon

20 Sunday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cards, courage, essay, fairness, moon shot, story, USA

Shooting the Moon

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

One of the first card games I ever learned to play was “Hearts.” It’s actually quite a fun game. Unlike bridge, which requires four people to play “normally”, Hearts, in my opinion, is even more fun with three. (If you like, you can read about the game before going on, but I don’t think it’s really necessary to understand the rest of this essay. The first link talks about the general rules and the second link gives some hints about “Shooting the Moon.”)

https://bicyclecards.com/how-to-play/hearts/

https://www.thesprucecrafts.com/how-to-shoot-the-moon-in-hearts-411727

Three was a good number (besides being prime, and a triangular number) because I was an only child for the first 11 years of my life. My parents taught me to play Hearts and Bridge at a fairly young age. I was young enough, for instance, that I looked carefully at each face card to try to understand the personalities of the people peering out! I liked the Jack of Diamonds and the Jack of Spades the best. I desperately wanted to meet them! (I wonder whether Roger Zelazny felt the same because in his rather wonderful “Amber” series…).

The back of the cards also fascinated me. I wondered what it would feel like to ride one of those bikes! I was particularly interested when one of the cards developed a flaw or bend mark. Even knowing the identity of one of your opponent’s hidden cards could be a tremendous advantage. 

Anyway, the game of hearts has an interesting payoff structure. You get a point counted against you for every heart that you take. You get 13 points against you if you end up taking a trick with the Queen of Spades in it. There’s a catch though. If you manage to take all thirteen hearts and the Queen of Spades, you get zero points against you. Your opponents each get twenty-six points against them. 

The player then is often faced with a dilemma: “Should I try to Shoot the Moon? If I do try, and fail, I will likely end up with many points scored against me. On the other hand, if I succeed, it is a huge advantage for me.” 

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It isn’t only the points. At a young age, I could handle rules and strategy, but if I tried and just barely failed to “Shoot the Moon,” I would feel extremely frustrated. I didn’t initially try to hide it either! I would literally see red and the top of my head felt is though it were floating away. I would accuse my parents of cheating although I don’t think they ever did. I simply made a false assumption or miscounted or miscalculated. Often, I took a reasonable risk, but the cards just didn’t turn out the way I had hoped. At that point, my view of the world was still primitive: someone was at fault whenever I failed, and I desperately did not want it to be me who was at fault. 

Luckily for me, throwing temper tantrums at the outcome of a hand of Hearts was not the sort of nonsense up with which my parents put. I soon learned to hide my rage and eventually not to feel it at all unless there really was evidence of cheating. I didn’t “declare” cheating on my parents or friends just because I didn’t like the outcome — at least not past the age of 7 or 8.

In hearts, it often happens that the cards you are dealt will obviously not let you “Shoot the Moon.” In those cases, your strategy for the hand is clear. Avoid taking as many hearts as possible. However, if I weren’t careful, I could easily end up helping my Mom or Dad “Shoot the Moon.” Better to take one heart or even four hearts or even the dreaded Queen of Spades than to let them “Shoot the Moon” and end up with 26 points!

It is extremely rare, in my experience to be dealt a hand in Hearts that makes it obvious that you will Shoot the Moon so long as you don’t slip up. Generally, the most you can expect to get every round or two is a hand that might let you “Shoot the Moon.” In accomplishing this goal, it is important that you not let your opponents guess that you are trying to Shoot the Moon. The sooner they “catch on”, the lower your chances of succeeding. 

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

At a very young age, I learned to “fake” my reactions to help my chances. For instance, the first time I took a trick in which someone laid a heart on me, I might grimace and growl and shoot the person with my dagger eyes. These ploys worked better against my friends than with my parents who quickly learned to read these fakes. Then, I learned to make them more subtle. Instead of grimacing and growling and shooting the person a nasty look, I would let the slightest hint of disappointment flash over my face quickly and then vanish like morning fog. It reminds me of toasting a marshmallow to perfection without letting it catch fire. 

I learned to judge more accurately whether I had a hand that would likely allow me to “Shoot the Moon” or a hand that would only allow me to “Shoot the Moon” if I were very lucky. If there was any chance at all, I would play for awhile and see how things went. After every trick I would “recalculate” my odds in some non-numeric kiddish way. I would often try and sometimes succeed. When I failed, I would try to learn from it. Sometimes, especially at the beginning, my parents would show me how I had messed up. For me, I discovered that it was more fun to try and fail than not to try at all, especially because I could learn from my failures. 

Photo by Jean van der Meulen on Pexels.com

———————————————

September 12, 1962: John F. Kennedy declared that “We choose to go to the moon.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/We_choose_to_go_to_the_Moon

On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon.

https://www.nasa.gov/audience/forstudents/k-4/stories/first-person-on-moon.html

The United States of America, literally decided to “Shoot for the Moon.” And succeeded.

During my working life, I have far more often heard so-called “leaders” in many different organizations encourage their workers to “Find the Low-hanging Fruit” than I have heard them encourage people to “Shoot the Moon.” What “leaders” will sometimes do is set a “stretch goal” for the workers to fulfill without any provision of the necessary time, resources, or personnel to achieve that goal. If the workers achieve the goal, the manager (not an actual leader) scores 26 points against his or her opponents. They shot the moon. But if, as a worker, you come up one heart short; if you fail to “Shoot the Moon”, then 25 points will be scored against the you the worker who failed. It is the worker who fails to “Shoot the Moon.”

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Since the late 1960’s, the real wages of workers have hardly moved at all. During that same time, because workers learned new methods, procedures, and technologies, productivity soared. In the past, the wealth created from increases in productivity had been split between the workers and the owners. Since, the 1960’s however, the increased wealth that accrued from increased productivity has gone completely to owners and virtually none of it has gone to the workers who increased their productivity. 

At the same time, and perhaps not coincidentally, most businesses, even pre-COVID, were not trying to “Shoot the Moon” — they were searching for “Low-Hanging Fruit.” 

What happened, America?

When do go for it again? 

When do we try to “Shoot the Moon” again?

When do we reshape our society to allocate windfall profits to the people who actually work for a living — and not just for the people who watch their wealth increase by simply owning stuff?

I do not think these two changes are unrelated. The people who actually do the work are willing to take risks to build something better. They are invested in the product or service they provide. They would like to be fairly paid, but it isn’t only about the money. It’s also about doing something really cool and providing value for the society as a whole.

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The people who simply move money around from stock to stock to make money don’t want to take risks. They don’t really care whether their money is being spent to cure cancer or to develop a new toothpaste that comes out of the tube and whistles “Dixie” while it does so. They want a decent return on investment. They may be willing to invest some of their capital in a portfolio of high risk/high benefit investments but most of them will abandon backing the attempt to cure cancer to invest in the whistling toothpaste if that’s what the “numbers dictate.”

This is obviously not true of everyone who is rich, but it’s more often true than not. Those, like Bill Gates, or George Soros or Mike Bloomberg who do contribute enormous sums to good causes are pilloried. Is it by other billionaires because they don’t want to look bad by comparison?  Is it by foreign actors who simply want to sow dissent and distrust within America? I don’t really know. 

https://www.cnbc.com/2017/10/17/philanthropist-george-soros-donates-most-of-his-net-worth-to-charity.html

What about in your own life? Have you ever chosen to “Shoot the Moon?” Or, do you stick with picking the “Low-Hanging Fruit?” What do you encourage your family, friends, and co-workers to do? 

————————————

Poems, stories, and essays that touch on courage.

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Child Like? or Childish? 

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

Skirting the Turtle

Listen! You can Hear the Echos of your Actions.

John vs. Worrier

Process Re-engineering Moves to Baseball

Jennifer’s Invitation

Wilbur’s Story

The Touch of One Hand Clasping 

The Impossible 

Author Page on Amazon

That First Time is So Special

01 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

COVID, COVID19, fantasy, fiction, health, masks, pandemic, Sci-Fi, story

477-K-435-J glanced at his comrade. “You look nervous. You doing okay?”

“I’m not nervous! Just leave me alone. I’m fine.”

“Geez. OK. Have it your way. Look, it’s no big deal. I was nervous my first time too. You’ll get used to it. Kind of. I’m 477-K-435-J. You?” 

“Really? How did you know it was my first time? Oh, I’m 45-PP-45-PP, by the way. Pleased to meet you.” 

“Likewise. For one thing…look, you’ve got this all twisted the wrong way. May I? I just want to straighten this out for you.”

“I … okay.” 

“There we go. That’ll make it easier. Now, look. Truth is, 45-PP-45-PP, you should be nervous. Our enemy has some pretty potent weapons. You’d be an idiot not to be nervous. Poison gas is no fun.” 

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“Poison gas? They use poison gas?”

“Sometimes. Nitric oxide. Nasty stuff.”

“Thanks. Now, I have something else to be nervous about. It’s just … they so damned big. And, they have brains. Big brains.”

“Oh, believe me, that’s the last thing to be nervous about. Sure, they have big brains, but do they use them? That’s the question.”

“Why wouldn’t they use them? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I agree. Hell, we all agree. It’s one of the great mysteries of near-life. But, luckily for us, we don’t have to solve that. We just need to use the fact that they don’t use them very often to our own advantage.” 

(Long pause). 

“How do you know — how do you know where to put it in?”

“It’s kind of instinctual. You’ll know. Anyway, there are lots of places. It’s not just like there’s one perfect place. We all develop favorites. Personally, I like the lungs best. It feels — it just feels right. Warm and wet. And, they really suffer, just like an enemy should. Best of all, it makes ‘em cough. That’s a free ride to the next sucker.” 

234-HH-432-99 joined in. “That’s not what I like best. Sure, it’s warm and wet. But so are the mucous membranes in the mouth. The mouth is where it’s really at, if you ask me. To them, it’s quite an intimate place. That makes it all the more fun for me!” 

477-K-435-J shook slightly. “Nah. Lungs. More damage. More spread.” 

234-HH-432-99: “Ridiculous. Trust me, kid. There’s no greater feeling than penetrating one of those mouth cells and squirting your RNA into it. You are the boss then! That cell does what you tell it to. And what you make them do is make more of you! I love it. Whoever came up with that one…they deserve to be…to win something.”

477-K-435-J “Yeah, yeah. But no matter how much you screw over their mouth, they can still breathe. And if they can breathe, they have energy. And they can use that to send their destroyers out.  

234-HH-432-99 suddenly screamed, “Hit the deck!” 

Without the slightest idea what was going on, 45-PP-45-PP did as he was told. “What the hell was that?” 

Photo by Ketut Subiyanto on Pexels.com

477-K-435-J replied, “That, kid, that is something you want to look out for. It’s a god-damned mask is what that was.” 

“Huh? What’s a mask? Does that kill us too?” 45-PP-45-PP reflected again on how much danger he was in. 

234-HH-432-99 answered, “No, it doesn’t kill us exactly, but most of the time, it prevents us from fulfilling our mission. Get caught up in one of those damned masks, and you won’t be screwing their mouth cells, their lung cells or any other cells. You’ll just … disintegrate … and die with no sons and no daughters to carry on your alphanumeric designation. It’s as though you were never really alive at all. Well, actually, you’re not. But you get my drift. You’ll be forgotten and nothing to show for it.”

45-PP-45-PP said, “Holy crap! How do we avoid them? A bunch of those things would ruin our whole plan.”

477-K-435-J added, “Yes, you’re right, but we’ll be fine as long as enough people don’t wear them or don’t wear them properly.”

45-PP-45-PP had the distinct feeling that his more experienced comrades were putting him on and making fun of his ignorance. “Yeah. Right. They have a way to prevent our spread and don’t use it. It may be my first time, but I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one! If you want to razz the new guy, you’ll have to think of something more clever than that.” 

234-HH-432-99 said, “No, kid. We’re not putting you on. Your buddy ain’t puttin’ you on.”

45-PP-45-PP still felt he was being punked. “So you’e saying they have a weapon to keep up from doing in their lungs and doing … any of their cells … and they don’t use it? Why? That makes no sense! I don’t believe you.”

477-K-435-J said, “Look, it doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. But we’re all in this together so why would I lie to you? No-one knows why they don’t use something that could save their life of the lives of their families. Some of their own kind have started rumors that the masks don’t work or that they infringe on their freedom.” 

234-HH-432-99 piped up again. “Hell, not only that! Some of them don’t even think we exist! They think we’re just a hoax!” 

45-PP-45-PP knew they were putting him on now. “Yeah, right. 1.5 million dead world-wide and 63 million sick …. And we’re a hoax? Come on. Give me a break. Just because it’s my first time doesn’t mean I’m totally naive.”

477-K-435-J shrugged, in his viral sort of way. “Look, kid, believe what you want. But trust me. Lungs. That’s where it’s at. And when… hey! Hey! Look sharp. This guys about to scream at someone, he’s surrounded by others, and none of them are wearing those damned mask. We’re in luck! Come on, troops! We’ve prepared our whole lives for this. Drill ‘em and kill ‘em! Drill ‘em and kill ‘em!” 

Soon the chant filled the air. 45-PP-45-PP joined in and all his nervousness, his uncertainty, his fear melted away. “DRILL ‘EM and KILL ‘EM.” He felt inexpressible lust at the thought of raping a species whose only outstanding natural weapon was its brain — a weapon so many refused to use. He thought to himself, in his viral manner, They deserve to be drilled! They deserve to be killed! He turned to the comrade who had first befriended him and said, “477-K-435-J, I’m going for the lungs!” Then, to himself:  “Warm and moist! Yum! You are mine you little slut cell! You’re going to birth 10,000 of my little babies! Whether you like it or not! You’ll see who’s a hoax!”

“Drill ‘em and Kill ‘em! Drill ‘em and Kill ‘em!”

And so they did.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

———————————————————————————

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic 

Unmasked 

Plans for us; some GRUesome

The Watershed Virus 

Thrumperdome

Author Page on Amazon

Two Boxes: Each Contains the Other Box’s Key

18 Wednesday Nov 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fiction, leadership, legend, myth, peace, psychology, puzzles, story, tale, teamwork

“Breathe.” Many Paths gave herself this advice today. She had given it to so many others and had heard it all during her childhood from the elder Shaman, She Who Saves Many Lives. She intentionally calmed herself. She looked over to her mentor who seemed to be getting better yet again. Many Paths no longer trusted these improvements. Three times now, the Old Mother had seemed to have finally fought off the Red Death of Tiny Spiders, only to later slip back into a fitful and feverish sleep. Now, once again, She Who Saves Many Lives sat up in bed and beckoned for more of the healing tea. 

Many Paths turned toward the entrance to her cabin and said, “Tu-…” but then, she broke off. She chuckled at herself and shook her head. Just yesterday, she had decided to send her younger brother, Tu-Swift, off to the Veritas on the other side of the mountain. Many Paths thought he was the best person for it and not only because he would find the most pleasure in it, though that weighed heavily in her decision. Tu-Swift — so easy to get along with! Perhaps that was because she was his younger brother. No, she reflected that she got along very well with She Who Saves Many Lives, and with Eagle Eyes and with — well — most of the tribe. But things had gone horribly wrong with POND MUD and ALT-R. And yesterday — she sighed at the memory — things had not gone well with Trunk of Tree either. 

She handed the healing tea to She Who Saves Many Lives whose hands seemed steady; her gaze, quite alert. Many Paths judged it would be quite all right to let the Old Shaman sip the tea herself.  Nonetheless, she was startled when She Who Saves Many Lives spoke up so strongly and clearly.

“Lost in thought, Many Paths?” 

“Oh, well, yes, but I need not burden you with it. Drink your tea and rest. That’s what you need, Old Mother.” 

She Who Saves Many Lives laughed — and laughed without coughing — another good sign, thought Many Paths. 

“I suspect I have a great deal more experience deciding what I need, dear Daughter.” 

Many Paths reddened. “Oh. I didn’t mean … I’m glad you’re feeling better. I just don’t want to see you slip back into illness,” said Many Paths. 

“I know, dear. I appreciate that. Don’t worry. I’m not going to jump out of bed and run down to the river. But I think it would do my mind well to focus on something. If it’s private, of course, you don’t have to tell me. But you do seem troubled.”

Many Paths looked carefully at She Who Saves Many Lives. “I — I cannot seem to get along with Trunk of Tree. I worry. He gets angry so easily. He tells himself a story that makes him angry — and then, he doesn’t bother to find out whether the story is even true! It makes me so — “

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

The Old Shaman’s eyes twinkled. “Angry?” 

Many Paths shook her head and laughed. “Yes. You got me. I get angry too. But — I don’t stomp off somewhere. Honestly. He’s strong. We could use him. We’ve lost so many people, and there are so many things to do — all at the same time — and — instead of helping…. I want to see Shadow Walker every bit as much as he wants to see Eagle Eyes. Surely, he must know that!” 

She Who Saves Many Lives tilted her head and as Many Paths looked at her, she realized that the Old Mother had the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth and more than a hint hiding behind those deep and ancient eyes. Many Paths pursed her lips together and shook her head. Then, she chuckled. “All right. All right. He does not really know. That’s the essence of the problem. He grabs hold of the first picture that comes to mind…and now I am doing the same. Despite my name.” Many Paths shook her head again, and sighed deeply. “All right, Old Mother. But what can I do about it. You are such a good teacher. But how do I teach someone who refuses to even consider another opinion?”

“Ah, the answer to that would be quite useful indeed! If I had the answer to that puzzle, Alt-R and POND MUD would still be with us. My dear, I am sorry, but I had some fever and I’m afraid my memory is not quite…remind me again why Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes are not here yet.”

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

“Of course. Sorry. We got a message tied to the leg of one of the eagles that were trained. Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes, as you may recall, went on a reconnaissance trip to the Great Stone Village of the Z-Lotz. There, they were captured. No, no, don’t frown yet! Here’s the amazing part. They are ruling there!”

Many Paths smiled to see that she had quite surprised She Who Saves Many Lives, whose eyes had widened considerably, as she said, “Hah! How? How?” 

“We don’t know. There was only room to write a little. They found the parents of Cat Eyes. They should arrive soon at our village. That’s all I know. I suppose I don’t even know that for sure. I feel it is true, but the message might have been sent by the Z-LOTZ as part of a trick to lure us into a false sense of security. But if that were the case, why would they say that our two scouts had been imprisoned? Anyway, even if they are “rulers”, I do worry. But, unlike Trunk of Tree, I’m not worried about them mating, which seems to be what Trunk of Tree is convinced has happened. I really wanted him to take a small party there to make sure everything is fine. At some point, I expect to see Shadow Walker again, but he — they — cannot just leave right away. At least, I can’t think of how they can. Anyway, Tu-Swift went to see the Veritas on the other side of the mountain. He’s being helpful, at least. But Trunk of Tree stormed off saying he didn’t care what they did with each other. So, now, I have to find a few others to journey there. I want….I want there to be peace, Old Mother, peace among all the tribes and among all the people. But I am having trouble even getting one man I’ve know my whole life to do as I say. How can I bring peace among all the tribes?” 

“Surely you have noticed, My Daughter, that at night, if you want to see a dim star, you cannot stare directly at it. You need to look a bit off to the side. And sometimes, that works with difficult problems. Instead of charging into it, sometimes it helps to put your mind to something seemingly unrelated for a time.”

Many Paths sighed. “All right. I’ll try it. I’m only going in circles now, anyway. What should we discuss?”

She Who Saves Many Lives nodded. “When you told me this little story, an old puzzle came to mind. I don’t think I’ve ever told it to you, but I may have. Anyway, there are two locked boxes. Each contains the other box’s one and only key. The only way to open the boxes is with the keys. You can’t use a knife or termites, for instance. Here’s the thing. I am able to open both boxes. How is that possible, Many Paths? How can I do it?”

{Translator’s Note:} So far as the records show, the Veritas at this time had a unique way of making “keys.” Keys and locks were made at the same time by precisely breaking crystals. Apparently, because of this method, every lock had exactly one and only one key that would open it and every key fit exactly one lock.

———————————————————

Author Page on Amazon

The Creation Myth of the Veritas

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

The Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

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