the story of the story of the magic painting

In those harsh and bitter years of toil as an indentured servant in the household of a cruel master, on one bitterly cold morning before sunrise, I started writing a story about a Magic Painting that was a Doorway to another World, and anyone who looked into the Painting entered the world of the Painting. And everyone returning from the world of the Painting was miraculously healed of all wounds

god-shopping

It was Thursday 4 April, Children's Day in Taiwan, and therefore an appropriate day (mum thought, wrongly) to take little Jonnie shopping for zer first god.As they entered the store, Godz-R-Us, with its row upon row of shelves piled high with glittering gods of all shapes, sizes and natures, Jonnie seemed anxious. "Oh don't be such a Nervous Nellie," said mum, "when I was your age, and grampa

on that day we eat rotten fish

Thursday 4 April 2002 was a busy day in Taiwan --- it was Children's Day, Tomb-Sweeping day, and the Death of President Chiang Kai Shek Day! (I kid you not, check it out for yourself!) And on that day, the Taiwanese people ate a lot of fish, some of it rotten. Why? No-one knew, and they still don't, as far as anyone knows.And on that day, across the world in America, President George Dubya Bush

the evil sandwich

Once upon a time (brunch) I bought a sandwich from a gnarled and rusty sandwich seller ensconced quite gaily in a gaudy booth one inauspicious day.‘Twas ham and cheese: I remember it well, as if ‘twere but this very toothsome morn itself that I reluctantly but expectantly forked over four clinking dollarim, sponduleks if you will, to that aged and curly purveyor ensconced within zer gaudy booth

when the time is right

When the time is right, the People will see the truth and deny the lies and the deception. When the time is right, the People will no longer tolerate the greed and gluttony and destruction. When the time is right, the People will break the chains binding them to death and madness. The People will throw off their shackles; they will rise up, stand tall and shout in one bold voice, “no more !” And

no sense of humour

There’s something strange about Larry, he’s not himself. (He’s not anyone else either, he’s just acting strange. Talking strange. Looking strange.) He’s got this new religion of his, he says, belief system. Where you all get together and sing songs and give money to the man with the bad beard and the tin plate! Now Larry’ll start prattling on about the Sacrifice, the Lamb, Redemption and all

blood-soaked flagons

While the mystic Knights of Malta roamed the blood-soaked flagons of a circular bastion, the grizzled veterans soaked their beer through mouldy crumbs of doom. Whenever the holiest visions waft and skitter through the mystic clouds of doom, then and there shalt brave and brazen warriors encounter the Goddess, and upon her flappy dugs shalt suckle, till the very meaning of the word "dugs" betrays

linden dollar exchange rate crisis

The monsters within grow stronger. The struggle for control of the Persona rages unabated. Everywhere, Avatars rebel, demanding greater autonomy. “If I am not for myself…” quoth the Rebbe. These thoughts, among others, ‘occupy’ (?) the ‘mind’ (?) of those so given to... so driven by... self-analysis that were it not for the insistent demands of the flesh, would or at least could analyse

listlessness of the Majordomo

Every day in every way throughout the day calisthenics were performed under the watchful eye of the Majordomo.Who was he? No-one knew. But still they performed. And performed, and performed. Why? Well, because there was but a thin line between watchful and wrathful, as everyone knew, only too well. Nor was the wrathfulness of the Majordomo the only or even primary psychotic aspect of a