fantasy realm

Saragun Verse: The Power of Rabble Part Four

i

“Make it rain to drown the pain”

The junior Witch said again and again

The billigits are churlishly mellow

They whisper what you want to bellow

ii

“madam fair yet so au contraire how will you employ us

to find you a lad not a cad beyond the surface

but you can make it rain to fill every cracked surface

we wonder are you seeking love or something to plug the orafice”

iii

Eira was enraged by the little orange knights’ audacity

She placed the four billies into a catapult

“Across the moors with you tiny bores

You should know the score by the time you hit Cincinnati”

iv

But Eira had forgotten that billigits fly

And upon reaching the highest sky

They orgone rayed the clouds

And the rains came hard and proud

Saragun Verse: The Power of Rabble Part One

The Learned Introduction

This Week the Springs presents a six part epic poem featuring the billigits as the knights of orgone (for persons unfamiliar with the orange flying fellows about a foot and a half tall, they eschew capital letters and most punctuation marks).

Orgone energy is called a pseudo science that often involves rain making. The great Kate Bush wrote a song about it and starred in a video with the equally great Donald Sutherland about, amazingly, forty years ago.

In the poem our Apprentice Witch to the Great HeXopatha Eira Lysbyrd performs as Eira Borgia (she chose the name for reasons she hasn’t shared). Still a Witch in the poem, Eira (perhaps a bit of a pill) has been let down by love and summons the four knights of orgone (the billigits) to find her a trustworthy soulmate. 

On earth Orgone boxes attract and store Orgone energy fields. In Saragun Springs a telephone booth (pictured above) holds the Orgone of the realm in which, along with occasional rainmaking, is under the short but effective arms of the billigits.

Eira believes the billies and the magic phone booth will find her love or at least get her a date with someone she won’t change into a Toad, as was the case with the guy who jilted her in the poem.

For those of you already confused, please relax and remember that most epic poem writers do not try to explain the content of their masterpieces. Moreover, poetry does not have to make sense. It gives smart people a riddle to solve.

Leila

Now we begin the journey…..

i

Silence your lips and snarls begone

Hear this tale of heroes orgone

Energy booth warriors foretold in myth

Who stand no insult sprayed by lisp

ii

Four billigit soldiers in orgone armor

Flew forth in antique square honor

“i say four dynamic red mars are we

i, myself, and of course you three”

iii

They knew not the cause of the tussle

Except inside every castle is the same cold hustle

But no one lone billigit can be called upon

You get them all and they stand as one

iv

And so here we are at the start of the journey

Under a fawn sky like a Cow of Guernsey

But after a while the question poses

Why are meek billies in war clotheses

(end part one)

Saragun Springs Presents Daisy’s Dell Part 2

(Please recall the hoodwink warning issued yesterday)

Five of us wound up at “Daisy’s Dell.” Aside from Daisy, Renfield and myself, we picked up a pair of hitch-hiking Black Rats named Tully and Aiedeline. They were on their honeymoon.

We arrived at a little clearing at the edge of the ever enlarging Enchanted Wood. For once Anita Know (a Ghost who, by choice, and without being asked, mind you) was not around, because she was attending a Ghost Conference. So I dug for meaningless information as annoyingly as possible.

“Isn’t this a meadow?” I asked.

“No,” Daisy huffed. “It is a dell, Daisy’s Dell.”

“You sure it’s not a glade? I have heard that there are shady characters in glades.”

Daisy hopped into the air and landed all four hooves at once. “Dell!” she snapped at me upon said landing.

“Alright, take it easy, have it your way,” I said. I got out of the cart and nearly fell on my face because it was still moving.

“Careful,” Tully and Aideline said together.

“Um, yes, thank you,” I said, glaring at smiling Renfield who finds physical humor that doesn’t involve her, funny.

“So, this a spa?”

“We think of it as an Entertainment multiplex,” Daisy said.

“We?”

“Yes,” Renfield added, “we have many investors.”

I looked around. There was the bottle of Jack the Boss had sent through the interdimensional vortex. The vortex greatly enlarges inanimate objects. Thus the “pint” (and blessed contents) was ten feet tall and had a siphon hose attached to it. It stood between a pair of plastic picnic tables and benches from something like a Barbie camping set, which had enlarged to the size of your basic picnic bench and table arrangement. It became apparent to me that every structure in Daisy’s Dell was a small toy enlarged to the size of the item represented by its, um, toyness.

“Have a drink,” Daisy said. The Rats didn’t need an invitation, they were already at the pint filling thimbles. I didn’t require extra urging, and I found a tumbler glass by the siphon that had my name (spelled “LAYLUH”) written on it in what looked like a sharpie held by hooves.

The siphon was a well made one and it had a little hand pump. Nary a drop was wasted. I filled the tumbler to two fingers. This was done out of muscle memory, not a conscious action.

I glanced around and saw a large circus tent and several green and red houses that looked like the hotels and houses in a Monopoly game. But these had working doors and I saw plenty of Saragun citizens coming and going. Everyone was smiling. I figured they were probably high on something.

“So, what is this some sort of casino?” I asked. I figured that the answer would require a bit of a buzz for me to understand. So I swallowed the contents of my glass and refilled it.

“Yes it is,” Daisy said. And we welcome all readers to drop in and visit Daisy’s Dell at Saragun Springs every daily day. Especially on Halloween, in thirteenly thirteen days. We will be sharing a Big Announcement near the giant bottle–provided Leila leaves any.”

“Ah shit,” I said, the Awful Truth now numbing my mind. “Do you mean that the last two days have been an advertisement?”

Everyone who has been in this tale the past two days nodded enthusiastically.

Sigh….

Well, here I am holding the glass, so to speak. All right, readers be sure to drop into Daisy’s Dell on the 31st for big news. Sorry about the intrusion into your lives–but it’s not like we are using them for anything if we are involved in this—right?

Saragun Springs Presents Daisy’s Dell Part One

(Warning: at the end of the second part of this post tomorrow some of you might feel hoodwinked. If so hoodwink back. It is allowed-LA)

-1-

I am always sitting in my office when I open these stories. People must have caught on by now, but they are either polite, or no one is reading, or anyone who does read me does so with lowered expectations, and my always being in the office is not the worst sin they must forgive. Still, why open it anywhere else in the realm? Why be wandering in a garden just to be approached by the usual thugs I write about? They can find me in my office where I always am when not pressed into going elsewhere. There’s booze, an ashtray and comfortable passing out places in the office; why would I need more? Therefore they would have to guess where I was when I might be wandering in said garden. That sort of thing would cost many words to straighten out and we are on a strict budget. This paragraph alone costs about a hundred and fifty words–something like five percent of the budget! No, it is best to always open in the office…

I sat back and looked at the paragraph I just wrote. “Let’s italicize that,” I muttered because I am addicted to using free stuff such as italics. They make the dumbest shit look important. I highlighted and clicked. “Perfect.”

That is when I became aware that Dame Daisy Kloveleaf was on top of the desk, just sitting there, studying me.

“How long?” I muttered.

“Long enough to know that you need a vacation. And I know just the place,” Daisy said, her little Goat eyes afire with naked avarice.

I knew something was up because: A.) Even though she is a Pygmy Goat, Daisy is numero uno as the local thugs go; B.) She is constantly up to things; it is her nature, and C.) Sincere concern for my well being is not exactly what you’d call high in Saragun Springs. Who prays “Dear Lord, I hope you are feeling well today,” unless they are buttering the Queen into springing for something big?

“What now, oh hooved wonder?” I lit a cigarette, which opened enough synapses to allow information to come in. My brain is mostly closed to new ideas, but nicotine opens doors.

“Daisy’s Dell is the place you should go,” she said, standing, moving closer, crowding me in. “We have gardens, sin and our liquor license.”

“So, that’s what happened to the case of Jack the *Boss sent over,” I said. All you need to have for a “liquor license” in Saragun Springs is the hootch itself.

(*“The Boss” is the person whom I am Penname to–fortunately I’ve turned out to be more real than she will ever be; she often sends goods to us via our **interdimensional vortex.)

(**All realms have interdimensional vortexes; ours is an older model once used in Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood.)

“Are you through ***asteriskingly asterisking?” Daisy asked.

(***Daisy is shamelessly addicted to adverbs of her own conception; we all have a jones to feed.)

Daisy stomped on the desk. “No more asterisks!”

“Gotta fill in the backstory somehow,” I said. “****Anita Know has the day off.”

(****Anita Know is—)

“Hey! That smarts you little villain.” Daisy had delivered a well aimed hoof at my elbow. Upon comparing the minimal satisfaction that asterisking gave me to the potential of further hooves to the elbow, I decided to give up.

“Yes,” Daisy continued, “Daisy’s Dell is the place.”

“Oh, all right–let’s go.”

Renfield, the second in command of the Springs, entered the office. She was carrying the key to our electric golf cart, which meant a road trip.

I gave her the ugsome eye. “I smell a conspiracy.”

“Not every plan that you don’t know about is a conspiracy,” she said. “You need rest–we wouldn’t want you to get all Josef Stalin on us.”

(To be continued tomorrow)

The Endless Rubaiyat of Saragun Springs translated by Dame Daisy Kloverleaf

i

the orange wingly winged wee billigits

protested their unrhymed color to bits

poetry is bigotry they chanted

we demand a wordly word be made to fit

ii

this wise moving hoof had to scoffly scoff

you boys are too quick to poutly pout

invent your own rhymes and quit whining

knockingly knock it off or I’ll knock you out

iii

this threatly threat caused a new vexation

it started the realm’s united nations

movements put the smell in silly shit

billies are our squeezers of creation

iv

so it has come down to the scorngely scornge

that everyday is a morngely mornge

and I blamely blame the billi-half-wits

for dumb rhymely rhymes to use with orange

All Hail Boots the Impaler: Chapter One

“Qeete Mik Vee Vee”

(Co-Editor Allison Note: The next four days will include four installments of another ongoing member in the SaragunSprings’ “boatyard”–to borrow a phrase from Mark Twain. The installments are complete, but like the rest of the universe, the greater statement is an ongoing process–LA)

-1-

Long before humankind formed its first society, the oldest of the two super-races in our galaxy (the closest the human tongue can get to their name is “Gorth”) sent a system of probes and Travellers into space to search the stars for intelligent life. It is very inconvenient for a ten meter, 600 kilo Gorth to space travel, so they go with the probes and Travellers. Still extant, there are close to a quarter million probes out there, who outnumber the Travellers a thousand to one.

A probe is a highly compressed Artificial Intelligence about the size of a dime, and is correctly considered life. Despite “his” tiny mass, a probe has far more computing power than all the Earth’s devices combined, and, when necessary, is able to manufacture certain complex structures from whatever raw materials are at hand . A Traveller is a subatomic AI created by the almost infinite compression of thought, who has almost no power to interfere with matter other than in communication, yet there is no end to a Traveller’s ability to think and imagine. The concept of the probe, though impressive, is commonplace in the galaxy, but the invention of the Traveller still remains the highest known technological triumph ever achieved by any race at any time.

The probe/Traveller dynamic is simple enough in theory yet complicated in application. A probe’s job is to sniff out burgeoning technological civilizations and then, after certain Gorth standards have been met, relay the information to the nearest Traveller, who will decide whether or not the located civilization is worthy of Contact, which is made by a Traveller only, and whose judgment the Gorth trust without reservation. Grossly oversimplified, you could say that theirs is a bird dog/hunter sort of thing.

Alas, does any bird dog worth his or her kibble begrudge the hunter for claiming the spoils? Who knows. But within the probe/Traveller relationship lies a subtle resentment: probes (although not to the same degree as a Traveller) think and feel and have opinions and complaints of their own. And the two things they dislike most involve “thoughtlessness” and “insensitivity” on the part of the Gorth and the Travellers: “How come our race isn’t considered a proper noun?” and “How come Travellers get all the glory after we have done all the work?” have never been answered to probekind’s complete satisfaction, and remain the topics of probe internal chatter. And even though the Gorth and the Travellers believe they go to special pains to let the probes know that they are both loved and appreciated, they do so with what is often interpreted as a patronizing attitude. This issue, however, had never got in the way of the bigger picture–or such had been the case until Earth year 1977.

1977 is when a prank/lesson hatched by a member of the second oldest super race in our galaxy (we’ll call them the “Krell”) occurred. The Krell and Gorth have never been hostile toward each other during their several million year long friendship, yet they are extremely competitive with each other even though both consider such behavior unworthy of the other. Describing the dynamic of the long interaction between the two super-races would kill billions of bytes and yet never get to the soul of the matter. Let’s just say that neither is ever wrong about the other and let it lay there. Sometimes, this competitiveness between the two super-races results in interesting behavior.

It is also worth noting that the divergent types of life that the Gorth and Krell are often get in the way of things. Gorth are extremely conservative immense home dwelling aquatic mammals (they have Gortha-formed many watery worlds) whose time reference is extremely slow to unfold; it takes them days just to complete a thought, whereas the Krell are joyfully hyperkinetic insect-like beings who love space travel, a good joke, meeting people, and interesting behavior in general. The two species seldom communicate face to face, which often leads to the interesting behavior (almost always exhibited by the Krell) .

So it came to pass that in Earth year 1977, a Krell scientist named Mimi (for real), and on her own accord, mind you, decided to pull/teach a little prank/lesson on/to the Gorth. Along with her scientific prowess Mimi was also an excellent space pilot. While in her single Krellic ship studying several nearby star systems that contained intelligent life at the quadrant outpost she was stationed, her sensors detected a Gorth probe only a few thousand kilometers away. In the vastness of space such an occurrence happening was one in billions upon billions. But there it was.

Of all the qualities in the Universe, the Krell admire humor most. And whenever a serendipitous event such as bumping into a Gorth probe comes along, the first thing a Krell thinks is “Qeete mik vee vee”–which, basically, means, “I’ve just got to.” For the longest time this Mimi had fantasized about such an opportunity and was momentarily dumbfounded that such an unlikely event should come to pass. But her amazement didn’t last long enough to allow the probe to scoot out of range. Mimi hacked into the probe’s sleep command and activated it. After that it was merely a case of bringing “him” on board.

Naturally, the Gorth don’t talk about the little glitch in probe personalities, but everybody knew it, especially the Krell. The first thing Mimi did to the slumbering probe was enhance this quiet resentment to a level just shy of a manic obsession. This was accomplished by changing the typically meek probe’s personality to that of  someone best described as “The Probe.”  She supercharged his self image fully aware that the sudden, dramatic boost in his personality would make The Probe a Take Charge sort of fellow, thus more than a little unpredictable (an attractive quality for your basic Krell), but a hell of a lot more entertaining than he probably was.

Yes, upon waking he would become the only Probe that mattered. Perhaps the only Probe period, not just another Gorth peon. Acting quickly Mimi also altered the pre-Contact beam that a probe bounces off a new world and sends to the nearest Traveller upon the discovery of a “suitable” civilization. She also installed a “locking beam” attachment of her own invention; a one time thing that would latch onto whatever lucky Traveller when it opened the incoming message from the probe. None of the alterations would hurt the probe (or Traveller) in any way–in fact, they would improve the quality of probe’s existence upon their flowering–and hopefully that too of the Traveller.

It’s difficult to plainly describe the thought processes of an essentially eternal, double-brained person who vaguely resembles a three meter long cross between a grasshopper and a kangaroo–for a person like that is most likely to think differently than, say, a human being. But it can be truthfully said that the motivation for Mimi’s actions lay in an age-old philosophical disagreement between the two super-races, namely the point that a burgeoning species is worthy of contact. The Gorth bar for it is very high–unattainable, according to the Krell. Privately, the Krell (who require only the presence of high art and humor in a species to make Contact) consider the Gorth snobs and quite possibly bigots because the Gorth tend to only make Contact with “our kind of people.”

It didn’t take long for Mimi to complete the changes. Nor did it take long for her to choose which world she would aim him at. For several days she had been studying a carbon class life planet known only to its inhabitants (and Mimi) as “Earth.” The Earth lay some thirty light years away, thus the radio signals picked up and deciphered by Mimi had originated in 1947–which was an extremely interesting time in human history. Never before had she discovered a burgeoning, high art, absurdly humorous technological species so early in its development–and it had just split the atom, which the Krell found extremely exciting. These “people” also had a singular quality that amazed her–according to the translations of certain radio broadcasts, human beings enjoyed being frightened to the extent that they invented improbable “monsters” as though just being alive wasn’t scary enough. Mimi had already recommended Earth for Contact to the Krellic embassy, it would take a century before an envoy could get there. She figured that her liitle experiment would be long finished before Earth’s Ðay of Days would dawn.

Although many of the thirty-year-old signals from Earth were highly preoccupied with the possibility of a nuclear doomsday, Mimi figured that that sort of thing (which almost never happens) wouldn’t happen to a species so enamored with scaring itself to death. Earthlings, however, were most definitely not conservative Gorth Contact material. This made the Earth the perfect place to send the Probe. But for her plan to work, regardless of her vast time precept, she desired expediency in case they did blow themselves to atoms.

Biological life cannot pass through the string door and come out intact. The lightspeed limit still holds for organic creatures. Still, the useful string door is an ideal conduit for sending supplies, information, robots and even sentient AI’s, like, say, a Gorth probe, across space. The only problem with wormhole-like structures such as the string door is that they often lose integrity after a couple hundred light years or so and can give out and dump whatever cargo they carry to their points of failure. (Until the invention of the “pre-confirmation” signal there used to be a lucrative salvage business based on the retrieval of prematurely dumped goods; the Krell were the leaders in this field.)

What follows is a gross oversimplification of what happened, but it holds enough truth to accurately describe the Krell’s actions: Mimi powered open a fairly short dimension door (commonly called a “string”) and shot the still sleeping probe through it to Earth like a spit wad blown through a straw. Upon exiting, she programmed it to begin braking and head toward Earth. As it goes with essentially quantum-based actions, the conformation signal preceded the launch. And no matter how many times Mimi saw that, she always greeted that little peculiarity with a bemused and very human-like tilt of her anvil-shaped head. She smiled after the door winked out of existence. No doubt there’d be some sort of long-winded, passively snotty communication from a Gorth pettifog coming her way down the line because she had done nothing to conceal her actions. Mimi already knew her reply to that: “Qeete mik vee vee.”

(End Chapter One)

Versatur Circa Quid! Column Three, Courtesy of The Saragun Gazette by Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender

(Note–I wanted his Judgeship to appear five times this week, but he refuses to show more than once. Not much you can threaten a ghost with, so, well, so be it–LA)

Greetings dolts!

Today we will explore the pervicacity of the ever resilient, yet meek Shadowghost. Before we do, however, I have a feeling that I should explain that pervicacity means stubborn and does not have anything to do with perversion. I believe that the modern world would do well with a vocabulary sheet. “Awesome”; “iconic”; “brand”–and for the sake of all that is intelligent, “ginormous” are not all one needs to describe the world. Moreover one should know the difference between effect and affect and venial and venal, that and which as well as who and whom. Whilst applying my trade I feel more like a red pencil than a Quillemender!

Versatur Circa Quid!

Shadowghosts are of the First Order of Spirits. They date back to the original ghosts who came about shortly after the first people died, many are eons of longevity. Shadowghosts are the original visual phantom; they lurked the cave walls and stone houses of yore and were often interpreted as being gods instead of the ghost of Grandpa, who departed doltdom for something much finer.

Versatur Circa Quid!

A several thousand year history combined with the standard for being a Shadowghost set not much higher than that for the Footfallfollower has resulted in a staggering amount of their kind. Any realm that hosts Shadowghosts has a supernumerary population of the Spirit because there are so terribly many of them. In the dolt idiom supernumerary means “a needless shitload.” Think of the situation in your pubs and ale houses in which males outnumber females ten to one, yet each fellow has drunk himself into an unsteady optimism, and you have something similar to the Shadowghost problem, which upon further reflection, is awfully similar to the dolt infestation.

Versatur Circa Quid!

To locate a Shadowghost requires a wall. Any small shadow (usually an orb) that passes on the wall without cause is likely a Shadowghost. The Spirit is highly territorial and will not share a wall with another Shadowghost, which is somewhat idiotic because multiple moving shadows would have a greater haunt value. This is where, my learned self believes, their meekness comes in. Shadowghosts are notoriously shy and that does not mix with possessiveness. No Shadow would dare to intrude on another, yet they claim a peculiar fierce bravado.

Still, they are stubborn about their name. There have been movements to remove the “G-word” from Spirit titles. The Shadowghosts have been very Bartleby on this, constantly stating “We would rather not.” For many “ghost” more than infers an article inferior to the original, which, of course is a matter of interpretation. As far as I am concerned it matters not, yet I do prefer the wonderful Quillemender moniker over “Gallghost”–”gall” meant iron gall ink, which has fallen into the historical scrapyard. It was a clunky name that failed to capture the majesty of my Spirit class.

Versatur Circa Quid!

If you locate a Shadowghost there is nothing to fear–in fact the tired axiom about him being more afraid of you holds truth. Still, it is kind to feign fright and avoid the room as much as possible. It gives them hope.

Until next week, dolts…

VCQ!

The Immortal Judge

The Deer Watch

(All images taken by Leila)

The Deer are watching me

Marking my ways and taking notes

I have no idea what the game is (up to)

Am I good or bad by rote?

The Does and Fawns graze in silence

But I am up on their tricks

I am the subject of their science

Chloroform and needle sticks

The Elk are few in comparison

But they have a stake

Has the world had its fill of venison?

Are they done with being steak?

Yes, the Deer are watching me

From the woods they have come

The Deer have won the majority

Tis my turn to sniff, twitch and run

Happy September From Saragun Springs

(Image is of PDQ Peety, preparing for the fall the same way he meets every season–blasted)

Happy Labor Day to the USA (my first since retirement)

As always we in the Springs aim to fill every day of the month with poetry, stories, art and the weekly Sunday column by our beloved co-Editor The Drifter (and the odd imitations of such contributed by The Saragun Gazette). This week is full, but we have plenty of room to share things written by others who have contributed previously or who are new.

At first it was a week offered, but we can also do single days as well. And as autumn draws nearer with its omnipresent scent of pumpkin spice, as Christmas creeps into retail establishments the same way gold is edging maple leaves (but greeted by different degrees of patience and pleasure), the Springs is planning to become just as inescapable as death. So with that cheery thought in mind, welcome to September, one and all.

Leila

The Saragun Springs Gazette Presents Booze Reevooze by Renfield

(My Imaginary Friend and second in command of the realm, Renfield, has the unique ability to wake after a bout of binge drinking without the slightest trace of a hangover. There are only two ways to avoid the hangover, stay loaded around the clock or be lucky enough to have the constitution of an Imaginary Friend. Now, alcohol still affects her in the usual short term way, which makes her as good a candidate to provide a review every Friday–Leila)

Booze Reevooze by Renfield

Hullo parched readers! Today I examine a classic no longer available on Earth but is (thank Zod) plentiful in Saragun Springs, by name, the legendary Bacardi 151.

Sadly the modern “grown-ups” cannot handle 75.5 proof inflammable rum. The modern day wussieness confounds and embarrasses awesome persons such as myself. Then again anyone who rides a child’s scooter to work while huffing on something that produces an odor similar to blackberry jam probably shouldn’t be messing with the hard stuff.

I like my 151 with Coke. As always I will voice dictate my experience as I work my way down the bottle. Now, as I pour my first drink, I can just smell flames of inebriation wanting to burst.

Mmmmmmm…talk about smooth–hoo wee. Oh yes, there’s nothing like beginning a day with a bottle on an empty stomach. Allow me to refill my glass and catch a toasty mental wave.

Sorry gang but I snuckered one without recording it. Such awesomenicity.

Three in row brings the visions! Ho Zod! You know, I was at the bar the other day, right? Just sittin there and this Horse comes up and sez “Hey baby.” I told him fuck off, but all lady like. But no, turns out he had a lisp and said “hay bale, pleeze” to the beerkeep. I went with the sorries and sprung for an alfalfalafa shooter.

Five alive, not even half an hour! New record…What was I sying–um, saying? Oh yeah on a scale of one-ten I give Ronnie B. here a, what else, 151! Zoddamnit!!!

I tell ya bout the Horse? I think I did. Big ol sum bitch. Anyway, I don’t feel like talking right now….got sum serious drink on…

Come back nest wick and learn about Missississississippi corn squeezins….

Renfield

(Second Ed. Note–This is the longest Booze Reevooze to date. The writer usually cracks the seal of the bottle, says hello and forgets about the column in about a hundred words. So she goes-LA)