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[FEEDBACK]

So many stories! Good work, everyone. 

FEEDBACK

@RootBound

Spoiler

The plot for the vampire story was spot on. I think it would have been the perfect story at 60 words, but it just reads a little awkwardly, trying to cram in all the juicy details into 50.

The child abuse story was awesome, disturbing content aside. That last line was haunting. Bruised air? You sir, are a poet.

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@Mandle

Spoiler

The mixed-up bottles was amusing, if only because my own wife has done this. Twenty years of WHMIS training has left her undaunted - just put a label on it!

"Guarding Gay" had more twists and turns, including the doozy at the end. You crammed a lot of character development into just 200 words - this was by far your strongest story this time around, in my opinion.

"The Gatekeepers of Smoking" was shallower and more predictable.

"Backlot to the Future" - interesting.  Feels a bit like the Jetson's version of the year 1980, though. Time travel tourism in twenty years? I wonder if people will even be able to afford groceries in 20 years.

"Leaving Home" was more thought provoking. What does status mean when you are the only one left? All those retired hockey players are so buddy-buddy after punching the crap out of each other throughout their careers because only they "get" each other. Those winner-takes-it-all types are setting themselves on a lonely path.

"2:31:15" was clever - got my vote for the short category.

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@Stupot

Spoiler

"There's No Taste Like Home" - Whaaaaat?!?    You got me, Stupot. I thought for sure the cannibal was going to jump out and eat him. Nice twist.

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VOTES

Spoiler

It was a close call, but I vote RootBound (Lesion) for best overall. For category specific votes, I vote Stupot (No Taste Like Home) in the 500 word category, Mandle (Guarding Gay) in the 200 word category, and Mandle (2:31:15) for the 50 word category.

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[A Tragedy of Errors]

A Tragedy of Errors

Spoiler

Prospero opened the door to gaze out at the torrential rain, the bottle of milk sitting just out of reach. His heavy eyebrows drew down over his eyes like the thunderclouds hanging over the Earth. Some wizard should invent something to solve problems like this.

He slammed the door shut testily, for there would be no milk for his coffee this morning. The deliverum next to the door rattled, but no milk shot out from its magical horn. Anything non-living that landed on the front stoop should be transported into his foyer before it had a chance to get wrecked. Prospero kicked his invention, wondering what had gone wrong this time.

In the end, he decided today was not the day to care. He climbed the stairs in a cranky mood, passing Igor at the first landing. The servant proffered a tray with dark coffee and darker porridge.

"Master no like breakfast?" the hunchback asked.

"Not today," Prospero sighed, patting his servant on the shoulder. Igor was as dedicated as he was simple. There was no point in burdening such a fragile mind with his malaise.

On the next landing up there was a little sitting area where he usually took his breakfast. It was dangerous to open the curtain, he knew, especially when he was in a brooding mood. The little clockwork puppet he had invented to stop him from such foolishness sat in his little sconce, shaking his head sadly.

"You're not the boss of me," Prospero told him, reaching for the drawstring.

The curtains opened, revealing a portrait. A few of the candles around the shrine spluttered to life. There she was—Beatrice—the love of his life. How long ago had he lost her? He stared with sadness down the length of white beard that reached nearly to his knees.

The little clockwork puppet waved in alarm, causing Prospero to scoff at his efforts. He drew the curtain closed again, and continued his ascent.

He passed another landing, this one containing the temporum. The machine he had built to turn back time had never managed more than to make his fingernails grow in reverse—a rather painful experience. He kicked the machine in disgust, causing it to whimper.

He climbed higher and higher up the tower, passing projects and dreams as incomplete as he himself. The relentum that was supposed to slow things down, the ungravitum that was supposed to make things lighter, the oblivium that was supposed to erase painful memories ... He kicked each in turn, useless things.

He was useless. He had failed as a wizard, and he had failed as a man. Prospero reached the top of his tower, and for once he accomplished something of note. He flew.

There was a long moment of near silence in the tower as the failed inventions whirred and churned. And then the deliverum rattled to life and spit out a baby swaddled in a very large robe. Igor scratched his head and went to tend to it.

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[SINITRENA]

I hereby declare SINITRENA as the undisputed winner of this scrumptious competition! 

Feedback for Sinitrena:

Spoiler

This was a very poignant story that "grabs you in the feels," as the kids say. I really felt for Evelyn, trying to interpret the world through the eyes of a child. I'm reminded of the Great Vegetable Caper my friends and I pulled back when I was five, harvesting a bunch of vegetables from my mother's garden with the intention of selling them on the roadside. That ... did not end well. Evelyn's motivation was more noble than ours, her plan more thoughtful, which makes the calamity of the result even more tragic. I'm glad I was born before screens were ubiquitous: these days kids can get a warped sense of reality from them, and over-screened parents have less time and patience to deal with the consequences in their children. These screens are the cancer of our mental well-being, slowly rotting our greatest asset and turning it against us. 

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I don't know whether to declare Sinitrena the winner by default or just lock up the shop behind me. This spring has felt like the FWC has tanked hard. Do we need to reconsider our format in order to attract today's youth?  More slangy buzz words? Longer deadlines? More sex appeal? Shorter word limits? More screens?!? I don't know. I feel like we had a good thing going here, but the vitality is slowly dripping away. Anyone have any thoughts to share?

One more day, folks. I want stories to devour this weekend! Who's gonna cook up some competition for Sini?

I always consider this my home, though.

This reminds me of my dad's favourite line, whenever we kids would pester for him to buy us a snack on the road.

"We've got food at home!"

In light of the current theme and this being Mandle's writing home, it works.

Three more days, folks!  How many other chefs can we cram into this kitchen?

[The Fortnightly Writing Competition]

The Fortnightly Writing Competition: Started in 1987 by Philip J. Ponch on the old ARPANET, the FWC is a light-hearted writing competition based around a theme selected by the previous winner. Participants have two weeks to compose a short story of between 50 and 2000 words, and then we all vote and give feedback on the results. Any genre of entry is acceptable (ad copy, poetry, instruction manual - we've seen it all). In fact, those word limits are more what you might call guidelines...  The important thing is everyone gets to hone their writing skillz and enjoy a bit of amateur storytelling. 

------------------------

So who's ready to devour some good reads?  Our topic this fortnight is:

FOOD



Food is central to the human experience, which means I expect not to see a lot of ghost or rock stories this time around.   Food can be scarce or shared, tasty or vile, tempting or wholesome, distressing or comforting. Food runs through the heart of our societies, our family relationships, or daily grind. Food can sustain us and destroy us in equal measure - can you feel the dramatic tension yet?

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a short story through the vector of food. It can be a mystery, a comedy, a tragedy, a dramady, a romantasy, a poetry, a spelling bee, or even a wannabe.  It can be a dusting of cinnamon atop a frothy latte or a sixteen ounce sirloin with three helpings of mashed-potatoes. Extra points if there are food related puns.    Extra extra points if MrColossal shows up and provides another instalment of Rutabaga the Adventure Chef. 

Deadline for submissions is Friday March 21, 2025, 11:59 pm Hawaii Daylight Time. Usually we are open to extensions on a per-case basis, but I caution you that extra time in the oven is usually not a good idea when baking is involved. 

Good luck to all participants!

Aw, man! I was looking forward to reading a zany story about that Tyrannosaur wizard. 

I'll try to come up with another topic today.

[The Limbus]

I was inspired by Milkanannan's entry for the "Unexpected Shelter" edition, back in June 2022.


The Limbus

Spoiler

Tuesday?

I arrived. I'm a little foggy on the details, just like I am with the date. The last thing I remember is falling asleep watching TV after a long day at work. Did I just wake up here the next morning? Did I "get away from it all" and just blackout the intervening details? Have I suffered brain damage and this is all a fantasy? So many questions...

I am grateful for the journal that I found just inside the cave. Pages had been ripped out from near the front, but the first page remaining had a title "Tuesday?" scribbled at the top in a shaky hand. I don't think it's my journal, but as I say I'm a little foggy on the events of the recent past. At least through journaling I have a way of making sense of this new and wondrous place. 

I like it here - it is peaceful. The air is fresh and the view is spectacular. But where is here? To be sure, it is a campsite on a cliff's edge in the middle of a vast wilderness. The sun is setting and I am tired, so I just sit by the crackling fire. As I gaze into the flickering embers I wonder at the mysteries of life.

Wednesday?

It might not be Wednesday, but as yesterday was titled "Tuesday?" it makes sense to continue in the same vein.

Time here seems to be complicated as well as questionable.  I awoke at dawn, or so I supposed, to see the sunrise light up the sky like a birthday cake. Except I am certain that is the same direction I watched the sun set yesterday evening. As I stretch out my journaling, I realize that the sun seems to be neither rising nor setting, but rather forever suspended in exactly the same spot. Yes, I realize the sun is always in the same spot, relatively speaking, and that it must be the Earth that is frozen in place, although the physics of that make no sense either.

And that is not the only thing that makes no sense. There appears to be no path to this tiny plateau. The cliff below and the mountain above are sheer—how did I get here?!? I stare into the embers, looking for answers, only to realize that the fire burns and burns without ever consuming the logs. What is this place?

Perhaps there are answers in the cave? I explored the front of it, up to the point where it became too dark to navigate by anything but touch. I could find nothing inside but rock, although the deeper inside you go you can hear a sound very much like a large animal snoring. With no place to run and no place to hide, I am reluctant to explore further.

And so I while away the hours, legs dangling over the cliffside, enjoying the view.

Thursday?

I must have nodded off. Is it a different day, or just a couple hours later? I decide to make a map of the stars still visible atop the dome of the sky, in order to compare their positions later. The fact that the sun still hovers red at the horizon does not fill me with much optimism, but I am desperate for any kind of distraction.

It seems an exciting world beneath me, just waiting to be explored. There are mountains in the distance, lit up by the sun to glow enticingly on the horizon. It seems to be bright and cheerful there, unlike my plateau prison that is forever locked in a gloamy half-light. It would be nice to make a journey there, through the forest at my feet.

But journeys take time. Without the cave, what will I do if I need shelter if it rains? What will I do for food? What if there are wolves that can hunt me down if I leave my refuge?

These questions bring me to even more uncomfortable thoughts. If the sun never moves, will the weather ever change? I have been here for many days now, but have never once eaten—why am I not hungry? The plateau is safe from wolves, but what if the creature in the cave wakes up?

I decide I must find a way off the plateau at all costs.

Friday?

Thursday did not end well. I tried to scale the cliffs upwards, but got stuck maybe fifteen feet off the ground. My arms, weak from disuse, began to tremble and fail. I skidded down the cliff face, twisting my ankle and scraping the skin off one of my knees in the process. I feel defeated and helpless. This peaceful plateau is really a prison, and I am an inmate. Only a long rest by the eternal fire brought me any comfort.

I begin to contemplate getting down the cliff instead of climbing up. There are tall trees near the ledge—if I could jump and catch the top of one, perhaps it will break my fall? It would be risky. There are thin white rocks on the forest floor, indicating a sharp landing if I miss the trees. I squint into the gloomy shadows beneath the trees—are they white stones or are they bones? A shudder shakes my spine, despite the warmth of the fire.

There is an alternative—the cave. Perhaps there is a path through the darkness to the other side? It is a longshot, but desperation makes me bold. I could push farther into the darkness. But what of the beast that sleeps within?

The fire! Even the fiercest animal fears the flames. I grab an eternally burning branch and use it as a torch, plunging into the cavern. The noise of the animal snores echo like earthquakes through the stone, but I continue, deeper, into the void.

The cave grows smaller, and smaller. At first I crouch, and then I crawl, burning my hands as I cling tenaciously to my only weapon and source of light. The tunnel shrinks yet more, and I am reduced to ooching like a worm.

I find the end of the tunnel, just out of reach, for it is so small I would never fit. There is a mouse asleep on a pile of pine needles, happily dozing away. The shape of the tunnel is like a horn, amplifying its tiny little snores, shaking mountains out of mole hills. I laugh with a delusional giddiness as I consider just giving up then and there.

Saturday?

I've decided that I am in a kind of purgatory, trapped in a gilded cage. Will I while away the hours of eternity on this cursed plateau, the wondrous world always tantalisingly just beyond my grasp? Am I dead? The wound on my leg suggest not. Am I alive? The lack of food for a week suggests not. I am neither dead nor alive, then. I am in a state of ambiguous stasis. I am in limbo. I am going to go insane.

The trees below beckon to me. A short hop would surely prove deadly, but what if I fling myself from the plateau with all my might? Isn't that how one overcomes purgatory, through belief? I have to believe I can make it. It is the only way. But my ankle... will I be able to get enough of a run?

Sunday?

I prepare for my journey. I rip parts of clothing and pee on some of the kindling in the fire, using the cooled sticks and rags to fashion a kind of walking-splint for my injured foot. I practice jumping against the cliff, trying to build my confidence. I stare at the tree tops, envisaging how they would feel in my hands. I can do this. I will do this. To believe is to be able.

I rip these pages from the journal, as well as a few other ones to continue my story. The journal I tuck back just inside the cave for the next poor soul. On a whim I title the first remaining blank page "Monday?" I vacillate between taking or leaving the pen—did I bring it here with me from my former life, or was it already here? I can't remember, and decide that the past doesn't really matter. Taking the pen would be a sign of optimism; leaving it a gesture of generosity. Which one would benefit a lost soul more in the long run?

In the end, I let the pen decide. The rest of the story surely belongs to it.

[close]

I was sceptical of this topic, but I've spent some time perusing backgrounds and was surprised at the problem I faced - too many sources of inspiration! 

I think I've finally narrowed it down to two backgrounds. Likelihood of making the March 1 deadline: 75%.

[@Sinitrena]

Sorry for the delay in wrapping up the competition. Work and weather conspired against me.

@Sinitrena

Spoiler

I loved the juxtaposition of Helene's life vs. Helena's. The tragedy of the job offer being decided by such a thin margin related to wealth was poignant (especially, as Paul pointed out, that it seemed to be the wrong decision for all involved, including the business). In the end this is a woeful tale, for while it accurately depicts the struggle of the impoverished, it offers no hope whatsoever for the future. One can imagine Helene's own daughter jumping through the same fruitless hoops down the line as the cycle of poverty grinds down through the generations...

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@Mandle

Spoiler

Well, credit where credit is due: the beggar - apparently an ex-theology student - had the drive and motivation to teach himself welding and bomb fabrication. He slipped into a familiar pitfall of the poor, however: shooting his mouth off at a self-defeating moment. His failure is as tragic as his success would have been, so there really are no winners here. I suppose that's an indictment of how organized religions can prey on the vulnerable, but as pointed out by Sinitrena the story itself lacked a specific lens on poverty.

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By my count, Sinitrena wins the competition with two votes to one. Congratulations, Sini! I look forward to seeing a bit more effort invested in the choosing of a theme for the next fortnight. 

So...  We're a bit vote-poor at the moment. 

[Sinitrena]

The contest is now closed. It seems there is a paucity of entries this time around, but we'll have to make do. Maybe we could cut them with sawdust to stretch them further? Submitted for your readerly approval, our entrants this time around are:

Sinitrena with The Interview
Mandle with Don't Read This

Given that we only have two entries, voting will be straight forward. Anyone reading these words must vote for either Sinitrena or Mandle (but not both, and certainly not neither!). May the best entry win.

Voting closes at midnight HDT (UTC -9) Sunday February 9, 2025, with results to be announced at some point the next day.  Happy reading!

Tick tock, Mandle! I'm not above charging usurious interest rates to poor poets who need to borrow more time. 

I have an epic poem in the works.

Ah, the poet. Poorest of the starving artists. I'm sure this will fit the topic swimmingly. 

Oh you poor souls - only one week left!   

[Poverty]

Greetings fellow writers and wordsmiths. This fortnight we shall grapple with the topic of...

Poverty


Make of this topic what you will. It can be sad or hopeless, or comedic and senseless, or gruelling and inspirational. Acts of desperation, borne of poverty, make terrific dramatic fodder, resulting in triumph or tragedy. Will your daring MC beat the odds and escape the dire straits of their economic situation? Or will intergenerational trauma be passed down the ages indefinitely? Or will you take the high road, describing the nobility of the poor on their own terms, carving out a life using the only currency they have: honour, kindness, skill, cleverness, or sheer desperation?

Submissions are due Tuesday February 4, 2025, Hawaii Time. Do try to be timely, as extensions can be costly. 

Good luck to all participants!

So what you're pleading is ... no contest? 

Thanks for the kind feedback. I'll mull over ideas for the next round and try to have it up and running soon.

[Just Justice]

Mandle, that's awesome!     I can just see you, finger hovering over your mouse button, to post at exactly 15:55:55. 

Sorry, my entry ran long, but at the same time I've had to skimp on a lot of description. I guess it's in the nature of a courtroom drama to be mostly dialog. 

------------------------------

Just Justice

Spoiler

The crystal cave glowed, the delicate lattice on its roof resonating with a soft luminescence. Pastel colours, changing through the spectrum as the crystals hummed and purred, proclaimed both the sacredness and safety of the space, miles beneath the surface the great stone island. Its cavernous size afforded plenty of room for hoof, claw, feather and flipper.

A man was led in, his hands bound behind his back with webs spun together so thickly they were strong as steel. He was prodded forward by an ibex, its horns leaving no room for dissent or deviation. A hush fell over the gathered animals, their squawks and whinnies turning to shushes and whispers. The man, scruffy around the face and unbathed from long days in captivity, looked suspiciously at the unusual congregation, but said nothing.

A line of solemn animals filed in, assuming their tiered seating along one wall of the chamber. A colourful bird with a large beak fluttered in and perched next to an elevated bench.

"All rise," came the call of the toucan, piercing the eerie silence. "The honorable Judge Jubias presiding."

The crystals of the cave shook with rhythmic pulses, heralding the approach of a creature worthy of the scale of the magnificent hall. The animals were now utterly silent, reverently awaiting the slow approach of their wisest jurist.

"Please be seated," the judge sang, flopping into the chamber and up the steps to her bench.

"It's a goddam whale!" the man gasped, as if the addition of but one more animal in the strange gathering had suddenly made it remarkable.

"It's a god damn long way up those stairs, I'll tell you that," the judge bantered back, settling in. She flipped herself upright so that she was seated on her lower back. Her jaw now towered over the court, her beady eyes peering out from the sides of her head, giving her a stern and critical bearing.

"You don't live two hundred summers by wasting the day away," Judge Jubias moaned. "Who have we got here?"

"Warren Metalshot, your honour," the toucan piped up. "Charged with high crimes against nature."

"Prosecution?" the whale sang.

"Pierce Grandswine," an old boar introduced himself.

"Defence?"

"Leonie LaGriffe," a lithe lioness growled.

"Wait, are y'all talking animals?" Warren asked. "I musta hit my head harder than I thought ... Do the grunt-growl thing again!"

"Your honour," Leonie began, "despite the vaunted intelligence of his species, the accused appears not to understand the separate languages of any but his own kind. As such, he is hardly capable of answering for the crimes of his brother men. I move he be deemed an imbecile and all charges be dismissed."

"Objection, your honour!" the old boar complained. "Witnesses place this specimen at the heart of the agricultural-industrial complex that has enslaved half the very planet. What kind of imbecile can fence off the land, burn the woods, and slaughter the rightful inhabitants of this world while behind the wheel of a '98 Chevy Tahoe?"

"Overruled, Ms. LaGriffe," the judge boomed. "Make your case, Mr. Grandswine."

"Certainly, your honour. Before you stands but a humble man, mere flesh and blood, just like the rest of us. But beneath that balding skin and brittle skeleton beats the heart of a cold-minded killer! Too long has man bent the rules to serve his own purpose, stomping the rest of nature to a bloody pulp like a permanent elephant stampede. I contend that man has wilfully defiled the land; that he has purposefully ripped apart the sacred links that bind the web of life. I charge that man has knowingly broken the highest law of nature, that of mutual dependency, and that he has thereby jeopardized the very existence of life on this planet. For this crime—and the threat to all of us that it poses—I move that man face the ultimate penalty at our disposal: extinction, with extreme prejudice!"

The solemn animals on the tiered seating against the wall whispered to each other before the judge admonished them to silence. "Females and gentle-males of the jury, you will have plenty of time to deliberate once you have heard the evidence. Mr. Grandswine, you may summon your first witness."

"The prosecution calls Filbert Gillflop, a tuna of the ocean deep."

An ancient fish flopped his way up the witness stand, pushing a wheeled pole with a fluid bag through which his precious gills were kept moist in the dryness of the chamber.

The grand old boar began his questioning. "Mr. Gillflop, can you describe the events of November 23rd of last year to the court?"

The old fish rasped in the parched air, his voice coming out as a barely audible whisper. "I was teaching the young, as is my vocation, when a vast and impenetrable net descended upon my school. It snared us all, indiscriminately, young and old alike. It dredged some of the rarer species off the seafloor, and trapped a passing dolphin as well. We were hauled to the surface where we were left to die in the cold cruel air, apparently to be eaten later long after our corpses had begun to rot. I would be mashed into a metal tin this very moment if not for the bravery of a knife-clawed lobster who was able to save some precious few."

"Objection, your honour!" Ms. LaGriffe roared. "Predation is an established part of nature. You and I both have dined upon the flesh of our fellow beings."

"Sustained," the whale judge moaned.

"Beg your pardon, your honour," the prosecutor grunted, "but I need to establish context."

"Continue," the judge sang. "But keep it relevant."

"Wait, is this some kinda trial?" Warren asked, the set-up of the cavern suddenly striking him as familiar.

"Mr. Gillflop," the boar bristled, ignoring the defendant's interruption, "do you believe you and your kin were hunted for food?"

The old tuna voice scratched as if his gills were filled with sand. "It's the only motive that makes sense. Except ...  except the members of my school were basically inedible. We have been poisoned for years by the discharge of the agricultural-industrial complex, resulting in the build-up of heavy metals in our bodies that would bio-accumulate to toxic levels in any predator foolish enough to consume us."

The gathered animals gasped at the revelation.

"Are you saying that the very predator that tried to consume you was also responsible for the pollution that would come back to poison him?" the old boar asked rhetorically. "Why, that sounds like an animal gone mad with power! No further questions, your honour."

"Ms. LaGriffe, do you wish to cross-examine?" the judge trilled.

The lioness stood up. "Mr. Gillflop, where did you say you were born?"

"I didn't," the old fish coughed. "But it was ... in a human hatchery."

The crowd gasped again.

"A human hatchery," the lioness repeated. "An attempt to make amends for destruction previously wrought upon your species. Ladies and gentle-males of the jury, does this sound like the actions of a species gone berserk? No further questions, your honour."

The animals of the jury whispered and bleated amongst themselves.

"Let's keep this moving along, Mr. Grandswine," the judge sighed. "Next witness!"

"The prosecution calls Clarence Stankbreath, a raccoon of the inland forest."

An old raccoon hobbled up to the witness stand, aided by a natural branch used as a crutch.

"Mr. Stankbreath, can you describe the events of March 30th?"

"I was starving, see? So in my desperation for survival I snuck some of the surplus food that a human had stored outside his fortress-nest. He was just letting it rot, but was still guarding it for hisself. But the food wasn't really food, y'know? It made me fat without providing any nutrients. Total junk! I ended up developing a blood-sugar disease from my dependency on it."

"Objection, your honour!" the defence roared. "How can my client be held responsible for the effects of food that was hardly intended for consumption?"

"Sustained. Mr. Grandswine?"

The old boar smiled, all tusks and guile. "Context, your honour. Mr. Stankbreath, can you continue your account?"

"So I was on a night raid, see? The forest was a slippery mix of mud and ice, so I was walking along the stone path the humans use for their metal wheel cans. And then suddenly I'm bathed in the light of day, and then just as suddenly I was struck with the force of a hundred bear paws, and flung into the ditch as if dead. It turns out my hip was broken, and it will never likely heal enough for me to continue in my vocation as a scavenger."

The courtroom erupted with whispered muttering again. A solitary wolf licked his chops at the prospect of the injured raccoon stumbling his way through the forest.

"So what you are saying," the old boar summarized, "is that man stole your health, by means both fair and foul?"

"Objection, your honour!"

"And is that man anywhere in this courtroom?" the boar continued, undeterred.

"He's right there!" the raccoon said, pointing directly at Warren.

"Good lord, are you the little varmint I hit with my truck last spring?" Warren asked.

Ms. LaGriffe smacked her face with her giant paw.

"No further questions, your honour," the boar purred smugly.

"Ms. LaGriffe?"

The lioness sucked in a long breath. "Mr. Stankbreath, are you aware of the law of the jungle, whereby only the strongest survive?"

The raccoon looked uncomfortably at the wolf in the gallery, but nodded.

"Well, according to the prosecution my client is dumb enough to poison his own food. And yet he was smart enough to fatten you up, and then to catch you unawares at night, even though you are naturally nocturnal and he is adapted for strictly diurnal life. Wouldn't you say he has demonstrated the strength to survive, at your expense?"

The courtroom erupted into chaos, necessitating the judge to bang her gavel until it shattered into a thousand little bits. "Order! I demand order in my courtroom!"

The gathered animals hushed like a passing storm.

"Your honour, the prosecution would like to call one final witness," the old boar announced. "We call Ganges Scrotifera, a bat of the air!"

A scruffy bat wheezed and limped to the witness stand, fluttering his one wing uselessly as he went.

"Mr. Scrotifera," the old boar began, "please relay the series of events that led up to April 17th."
 
"Huh? What?"

"Objection, your honour!" Ms. LaGriffe jumped up. "This witness presents as unreliable. Mr. Scrotifera, have you been drugged?"

"I admit my witness has suffered mental injury," the old boar conceded. "But it was sustained in learning the most damning truth of all. I assure you that his testimony is lucid, once he can be brought around to telling it."

"Proceed, Mr. Grandswine," the whale judge moaned. "But I will halt this testimony if I feel you are manipulating the witness."

"I'm afraid what Mr. Scrotifera has to say is well beyond the conjuring of my imagination," the boar responded.

"What's with the half-dead bat?" Warren asked.

"Mr. Scrotifera, you are in the highest court in all of nature," Grandswine grunted in a raised voice, as if speaking to someone half-deaf. "I ask you to tell the truth of what man did to you these past few months."

The bat's head lolled on his neck, as if he were drunk. "Cold!" he squeaked. "So cold!"

"Mr. Scrotifera ..."

"It began when my forest was harvested," the bat squealed. "Trees ... just gone! And in their place towers of stone housing many men. There were few bugs to hunt, and the nooks and crannies to nest in were now cold and hard. Many died, but I persisted ..."

The bat's head drooped back, as if he were staring at the colourful crystals of the ceiling with his glassy blind eyes.

"Mr. Scrotifera?"

"When the music plays, the blade shall cut!" the bat suddenly screamed, the suddenness of his outburst making the gathered throng of animals jump in unison. "It burns through the numbness!"

"Mr. Scrotifera, back to the city of man ..."

"There were many animals there, mangy, half-tame things, surviving on the refuse of the heartless streets. One chanced to bite me, spreading the rabies. My mind ... do you smell fire?"

The bat listened around, sniffing the air.

"Of course the rabies has existed in nature for ages beyond memory," the old boar clarified for the court. "But in keeping animals at the brink, and gathering them into such close quarters, man has made it much more prevalent. What happened then?"

"Bars ..." the bat muttered. "Cages and bars, needles and pills. Shaving and drugging and sleepless days beneath the eternal lights. I was captured ... and men tested their most devious concoctions upon me."

The court gasped at the horror.

"But why would they do such a thing, Mr. Scrotifera?"

The bad twitched and wheezed. "Playing god," was all he squeaked.

"Playing god!" the old boar barked. "Playing at becoming a being that by definition is beyond the restraint of nature and its laws! However did you escape?"

"Bit the handler ... squirmed out through a window. Heard later that the man made another man sick, and then another. The rabies in my blood mixed with the virus in the needles and made ... made something unnatural. A horrible illness for my kind ... but spilled over into man it became a plague."

"Thank you, Mr. Scrotifera. Females and gentle-males of the jury, you have heard first-hand testimony implicating man not only in the violation of our natural laws, but in the folly of his unfettered ascendency to god-like power. A power which has driven him mad:  he has not only destroyed the life-web which supported his rise, but he has actively worked to forge a new one in which his very existence is imperilled! You must find the defendant guilty of high crimes against nature, or destruction be our lot. The prosecution rests."

"Mrs. LaGriffe?"

"Ugghhhhh," Warren groaned. Beads of sweat had erupted on his brow, even as the colour had drained from his flesh. "I don't feel so good."

The defence lawyer looked from Warren to the bat, to the jury, to the judge, and then back to her client.

"Your honour," she began, rising. "Your honour, the defence's case is simple. We do not contest that man has poisoned the seas and their food within it, nor that he has enfeebled the animals that live in his shadow, nor that he has played at being god."

A buzz of shock rippled through the courtroom before the whale-judge called for order once more.

"The case of the defence is this," Ms. LaGriffe continued. "We contend that man has not, in fact, broken the high laws of nature. That he is, in fact, still very much tied to the web of life. Like lemmings, he is reaping the folly of his overcrowding. The genius of man may have created this new super disease, but it is his destiny to bear the brunt of its fury. Man has tried to bend the world to his whim, yes, but nature has ever bounced back in his face. I say man is innocent of the charges against him. He is a killer, yes, but a rather shortsighted predator, like a wolf that eats the last sheep on an island. He is a poisoner, yes, but like a dog one that must then stoop to eat the mess he has made. He aspires to god-like manipulation of life itself, yes, but to his ultimate folly. Nature triumphs, for even now the defendant shows symptoms of his self-wrought plague. Females and gentle-males of the jury, I say that man will be better served by suffering the blowback of his own meddlings than any punishment we can mete out, perhaps to emerge as a more chastised and beneficent contributor to the web of life. The defence rests."

Jobias the whale judge looked sternly at the two lawyers in front of her, and then turned to the jury.  "Well, you have heard two quite compelling cases. What say you?"

[close]

I'm about 2/3 done, but running long. I can have it in by the end of tomorrow, but it'll be really late (GMT -6).