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He ran a hand over his face and shook his head. "Lass, I have never lied to you. I adore you and there have never been any other women from the future here. And these"- he flung a tampon in the air- "cleaning swabs, I cannot fathom why they upset you so greatly, but I assure you I have never let the maids use them." Lisa's brow furrowed. No man could be so stupid. "Cleaning Swabs?" He snatched up a gun and jerked the barrel in her direction, and an unwrapped tampon shot out. It was coated with black from the slow corrosion of the steel. She eyed it for a moment, bent, and plucked it from the floor. "You clean your guns with these?" He lowered the gun. "Is that not the purpose for which they were designed? I vow I could not conceive of another." Didn't you read the box?" There were too many words I didn't understand! ↗
The embrace of present and past time, in which English antiquarianism becomes a form of alchemy, engenders a strange timelessness. It is as if the little bird which flew through the Anglo-Saxon banqueting hall, in Bede's Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, gained the outer air and became the lark ascending in Vaughan Williams's orchestral setting. The unbroken chain is that of English music itself. ↗
My great-great grandfather and I were best of friends, although we never met. Fire and shipwreck orphan us – 140 years apart. We escape to imagination to survive our fate. There, midst flights of whimsy we find one another. Companionship quells our loneliness. We create fables and tales, shields against a harsh existence. We must battle animals and humans of prey. Together, he, the future abolitionist-publisher James Thaddeus ‘Blackjack’ Fiction, and I vault from glory-laden adventures to tragedy and then to triumph. I am Raji Singh and this is my story. ↗
#fiction #humor #satire #short-story #whimsey
There's little to see, but things leave an impression. It's a matter of time and repetition. As something old wears thin or out, something new wears in. The handle on the pump, the crank on the churn, the dipper floating in the bucket, the latch on the screen, the door on the privy, the fender on the stove, the knees of the pants and the seat of the chair, the handle of the brush and the lid to the pot exist in time but outside taste; they wear in more than they wear out. It can't be helped. It's neither good nor bad. It's the nature of life. ↗
#life
Love should not make us blind to faults, nor familiarity make us too ready to blame the shortcomings we see. ↗
Mrs. Jo did not mean the measles, but that more serious malady called love, which is apt to ravage communities, spring and autumn, when winter gayety and summer idleness produce whole bouquets of engagements, and set young people to pairing off like the birds. ↗
…I wanted to show that the mother was the heroine as soon as possible. I'm tired of love-sick girls and runaway wives. We'll prove that there's romance in old women also. ↗
Koji mi to rat vodimo, s očitim porazom? Jutro za jutrom, već satrti od svih tih bitaka koje dolaze, vodimo svakidašnji užas tim beskonačnim hodnikom koji će u zadnjim trenucima biti ravan sudbini, jer smo tako dugo išli njime. Da, anđele, to je svakidašnjica: mrzovoljna, prazna i prepuna jada. U njoj krugovi pakla nisu nikakva rijetkost,; jednog dana zaplačeš jer si predugo bio ondje. Iz hodnika u krugove: tako se dogodi pad, bez sudara i bez iznenađenja. Svaki dan, mirimo se s tugom hodnika i, korak po korak, idemo putem svog mračnog prokletstva. ↗
#existencial #life #routine #death
It's an insidious idea, this notion that there is life after death. The promise of a reward in the afterlife has been used as an excuse to deny help to the poor, helpless and oppressed; to explain away human misery rather than deal with it. It is an idea that is used to encourage young men and women to kill themselves, and others, so that they can become martyrs. It allows victims of injustice to be told not to worry because justice will be done in the afterlife. It depresses me to think that so many people on the planet live their lives with this notion. Can we truly fulfill our potential as a species as long as we hold on to, and encourage, the perpetuation of the lie of life after death? ↗
