wisb-Guardian-Express

A few folks have raised some interesting questions/ideas over on my post about the nominees for the Hugo Awards.  I suspect I will explore these topics again in the future.  The one thing I did want to remedy about my comments is my dismissive nature of the fanzines.  It seems rather silly of me to dismiss fanzines simply because nobody I know is talking about them, etc..  I rarely do that for any other category, so why should I do it with fanzines?

Today's poem was inspired by The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister.  When I say inspired, I don't necessarily mean "inspired by the story," though one could certainly make the argument that my cursory knowledge of this rather famous children's book did influence the writing of the poem below.  It'll be interesting to hear what people think of what I've written...

For the record:  I am behind by three poems.  No idea if I'll catch up...

Here goes:

There are no scales covering the skin
of the god fish who floats downriver
in a cup of his own making.

His tail -- a mangled twitching
against the banshee howl
of the wind turned hypersonic
on its journey through the
crags of a forgotten canyon.

His mind -- a quiet confusion,
the pine-salt air in his lungs
sustaining a body yet yearning
for the deep solitude of water.

Ah, but a solitude in the company
of a community of confused beasts,
whose shimmer-scales and whistling-furs
remind the god fish of the days
when he was master over all
and his scales were quiet flashes
in the honey flow of the Sun.

The frayed snap-twig in fin,
he rows towards the light --
the candles of evening whisper,
saying his name as the wind
carries the dreams of ghosts.

And in his dreams -- a screech,
the falcon's jealous feather-gaze
upon the multicolored shimmy shimmer
of the god fish's many scales;
the grumble of the earth beasts,
the tinfoil call of scaly walkers,
the scruffy scrabble of the whispering ones
and so many voices so the earth
at once knows only one name:
the god fish! the god fish!

In the cup of his own making,
his tears turn sour on bare flesh,
glittering with dream stuff
like echoes of faces in still water:
hands and claws and talons ripping,
pulling like unkempt wolf children
at the multitude of magnified markers
which the god fish dispells in salt.

Oh, but the worst dream of all --
the little cousins and sisters
and brothers and friends
who once knew the god fish
by the smiles that graced their faces...
Their bodies are now home
to someone else's skin.

Up the river, pushing weak currents,
the god fish holds his tongue
against the roof of a mouth
made sticky by too much trauma.
Against the wet sting of his wounds
his grief finds its voice in his silence.

Time for another poem for NaPo.  A good poem?  No.  But Adam wanted me to write something with rhymes, and so I did so while watching a strange argument at Taco Bell.  It should be clear from the poem what I thought of that argument (or I hope so, at least).

Here you go:

The handiwork of a few tall men
determines the flow of the streams
upon which the nation boat sends
its shadows of little folk dreams.

The image of a scrimmage of beasts
cackling over stories in need of context
without which the watcher's eyes only feast,
wondering on whose back the Truth next

speaks its heart murmur songs
and communicates the fate of small souls
whose narratives are but empty among the throngs
of gestures; a hint of dejection lulls

where rejection molds a whiplash injection
upon the neck of the story-less employee
who is tossed away before the public perception
can broadcast the past
through distance and glass
and claim for the watcher --
whose wandering eyes a lecher --
the nature of Truth's jubilee...

Last year, I ranted about the Hugo Awards (here and here) after they were announced.  This year, I'm switching things up to offer some preliminary thoughts before they are announced, and after.  If you'd like to put me in my place, the comments are yours.  These are preliminary thoughts, so I expect to be proven wrong on many counts.

(Note:  Some categories will get a slight pass, as I don't want to comment too much about areas about which I have little reading experience.  I will make guesses about winners based solely on what information I have in my arsenal, which means that most of my guesses are not educated whatsoever.)

Here goes:


Best Novel
Among Others, Jo Walton (Tor)
A Dance With Dragons, George R. R. Martin (Bantam Spectra)
Deadline, Mira Grant (Orbit)
Embassytown, China Miéville (Macmillan / Del Rey)
Leviathan Wakes, James S. A. Corey (Orbit)

I'm not terribly disappointed in these choices.  One of my professors has told me that Among Others is brilliant, and I've had a love affair with Mieville for a while now.  Martin is an obvious choice, what with his enormous fanbase.  I don't know enough about James S. A. Corey or Leviathan Wakes to offer any opinions whatsoever, though one of my friends liked the book enough to give me a copy, so I suspect it's not bad.  The Grant, sadly, doesn't interest me at all, but if someone wants to send me both books in that series to prove me wrong, go for it.

I would have preferred to see Of Bloody and Honey by Stina Leicht and Osama by Lavie Tidhar here, but that might be asking too much.  I am sad that no small press titles are on this list, though.

Overall feeling:  *un-enthused, slightly disappointed shrug*
Who will win?  Mieville

Best Novella
Countdown, Mira Grant (Orbit)
“The Ice Owl”, Carolyn Ives Gilman (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction)
“Kiss Me Twice”, Mary Robinette Kowal (Asimov’s)
“The Man Who Bridged the Mist”, Kij Johnson (Asimov’s)
“The Man Who Ended History: A Documentary”, Ken Liu (Panverse 3)
Silently and Very Fast, Catherynne M. Valente (WSFA)
Note: 6 nominees due to tie for final position.

Some of the same names again.  This could be a good thing, or it could be bad.  I am pleased to see Ken Liu on the list, though.  I've talked with him on Google+ and he seems like a nice guy.  But the Novella category is always one of those "hey, I haven't read enough" categories.

Overall feeling:  *okay*
Who will win?  Kowal

Best Novelette
“The Copenhagen Interpretation”, Paul Cornell (Asimov’s)
“Fields of Gold”, Rachel Swirsky (Eclipse Four)
“Ray of Light”, Brad R. Torgersen (Analog)
“Six Months, Three Days”, Charlie Jane Anders (Tor.com)
“What We Found”, Geoff Ryman (The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction)

Geoff Ryman is a genius.  Swirsky is pretty damned good too.  Haven't read the others.  That is all.

Overall feeling:  *hmm, interesting*
Who will win?  Swirsky

Best Short Story
“The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees”, E. Lily Yu (Clarkesworld)
“The Homecoming”, Mike Resnick (Asimov’s)
“Movement”, Nancy Fulda (Asimov’s)
“The Paper Menagerie”, Ken Liu (The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction)
“Shadow War of the Night Dragons: Book One: The Dead City: Prologue”, John Scalzi (Tor.com)

Oh, hey, look, the same magazines over and over.  No Interzone selections?  No Weird Tales?  No *insert one of the dozen other pro and semi-pro mags with great stories in them here*?

But the crown jewel of utter stupidity here is Scalzi's April Fool's joke.  Yeah, that story was written for April Fool's Day last year.  Not serious.  If anything could destroy the credibility of this award, it is that fact.  Don't get me wrong.  I like Scalzi.  He's even a pretty good writer.  But this is a new low for the Hugos.  I will refer to them as the Joke Hugos from now on.

Overall feeling:  *annoyed*
Who will win?  Scalzi (because that would make the Joke Hugos perfectly Jokey, no?)

Best Related Work
The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, Third Edition, edited by John Clute, David Langford, Peter Nicholls, and Graham Sleight (Gollancz)
Jar Jar Binks Must Die…and other Observations about Science Fiction Movies, Daniel M. Kimmel (Fantastic Books)
The Steampunk Bible: An Illustrated Guide to the World of Imaginary Airships, Corsets and Goggles, Mad Scientists, and Strange Literature, Jeff VanderMeer and S. J. Chambers (Abrams Image)
Wicked Girls (CD), Seanan McGuire
Writing Excuses, Season 6 (podcast series), Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, Howard Tayler, Mary Robinette Kowal, and Jordan Sanderson

You know what?  There are some good choices here.  I suspect ESF (Clute) will take it, but I wouldn't ignore The Steampunk Bible (I would marry VanderMeer's editing side) or Writing Excuses here (a great podcast).  I don't know much about the Kimmel, but it seems like an interesting book.  Award-worthy?  No idea.

Overall feeling:  *okay*
Who will win?  Clute (too perfectly historical for its own good)

Best Graphic Story
Digger, by Ursula Vernon (Sofawolf Press)
Fables Vol 15: Rose Red, by Bill Willingham and Mark Buckingham (Vertigo)
Locke & Key Volume 4: Keys To The Kingdom, written by Joe Hill, illustrated by Gabriel Rodriguez (IDW)
Schlock Mercenary: Force Multiplication, written and illustrated by Howard Tayler, colors by Travis Walton (The Tayler Corporation)
The Unwritten (Volume 4): Leviathan, created by Mike Carey and Peter Gross, written by Mike Carey, illustrated by Peter Gross (Vertigo)

You know what?  I have no idea.  I don't read graphic novels.  So I'll let the folks in the comments handle this one.

Overall feeling:  *umm, what?*
Who will win?  No idea.

Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form
Captain America: The First Avenger, screenplay by Christopher Markus and Stephan McFeely; directed by Joe Johnston (Marvel)
Game of Thrones (Season 1), created by David Benioff and D. B. Weiss;
written by David Benioff, D. B. Weiss, Bryan Cogman, Jane Espenson, and George R. R. Martin; directed by Brian Kirk, Daniel Minahan, Tim van Patten, and Alan Taylor (HBO)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, screenplay by Steve Kloves; directed by David Yates (Warner Bros.)
Hugo, screenplay by John Logan; directed by Martin Scorsese (Paramount)
Source Code, screenplay by Ben Ripley; directed by Duncan Jones (Vendome Pictures)

Umm, Game of Thrones is a television series.  Yes, it's all part of one long narrative, but it is not a "Long Form Dramatic Presentation."  So it doesn't belong here.  Someone in admin needs to make a correction ASAP.

As for the rest:  Some decent films.  Captain America was okay, but I wouldn't give it an award.  I haven't seen Source Code, though I'm told it's pretty good.  HP7P2 was also pretty good, and might have won this if not for the ten-ton elephant in the room:  Hugo.  If Hugo does not win, then the Joke Hugos will receive more Jokey points.

Overall feeling:  *approval (almost)*
Who will win?  Hugo (or I will kill someone)

Best Dramatic Presentation, Short Form
Doctor Who, ”The Doctor’s Wife”, written by Neil Gaiman; directed by Richard Clark (BBC Wales)
“The Drink Tank’s Hugo Acceptance Speech”, Christopher J Garcia and James Bacon (Renovation)
Doctor Who, ”The Girl Who Waited”, written by Tom MacRae; directed by Nick Hurran (BBC Wales)
Doctor Who, ”A Good Man Goes to War”, written by Steven Moffat; directed by Peter Hoar (BBC Wales)
Community, ”Remedial Chaos Theory”, written by Dan Harmon and Chris McKenna; directed by Jeff Melman (NBC)

I've not seen Community, so I can't comment on it.  The only Doctor Who episode worth its salt here is "The Girl Who Waited."  The others were essentially 2-3 episode arcs shoved into 45 minutes.  The Gaiman episode should have been split into two, because there is far too much awesome going on there to justify a 45 minute presentation.  "A Good Man Goes to War" suffers from one of the most ridiculous plot points I've seen in a long time:  namely, magically discovering that your good friend, River Song, is actually Amy and Rory's kidnapped baby, and suddenly not giving a shit that your baby was kidnapped.  What?  My mother is a recovering alcoholic and she'd probably destroy half the planet to find me if I was kidnapped by an evil brainwashing organization...  Calling B.S. here.

But then the Joke Hugos put on the Super Jokey Mask with the inclusion of Garcia's Hugo speech last year. Wait, what?  Correct me if I'm mistaken, but his speech was not part of a performance; it was genuine.  I would personally be quite offended if my emotional response to receiving recognition from my peers was reduced to a performance.  And even if that weren't the problem, this is again a new low for the Joke Hugos.  I suppose we should just hand out Joke Hugos for any public display of emotion.  When I'm at a convention in the next few years, please remember this, because I'm going to have an emotional breakdown in front of everyone, and I expect to win a Joke Hugo for my effort.

Overall feeling:  *bitter meh*
Who will win?  Gaiman

Best Semiprozine
Apex Magazine, edited by Catherynne M. Valente, Lynne M. Thomas, and Jason Sizemore
Interzone, edited by Andy Cox
Lightspeed, edited by John Joseph Adams
Locus, edited by Liza Groen Trombi, Kirsten Gong-Wong, et al.
New York Review of Science Fiction, edited by David G. Hartwell, Kevin J. Maroney, Kris Dikeman, and Avram Grumer

Yup.  Lots of tasty here.  Some are obvious, of course, but I can't say I would complain if one of these won.  Granted, I think Interzone deserves the award, but that's me.

Overall feeling:  *yes*
Who will win?  JJA

Best Fanzine
Banana Wings, edited by Claire Brialey and Mark Plummer
The Drink Tank, edited by James Bacon and Christopher J Garcia
File 770, edited by Mike Glyer
Journey Planet, edited by James Bacon, Christopher J Garcia, et al.
SF Signal, edited by John DeNardo

The same problem as last year:  a bunch of fanzines I've only become familiar with because of the awards because they almost never appear in the hundreds of discussions going on in the community around me.  Except SF Signal, of course, which I hope will pick up the award.  I don't care about "proper fanzine" arguments.  SF Signal is good and it isn't lost in the background.  People know about it.  People read it.  People comment on it.  And people talk about it.  That's good enough for me.

Overall feeling:  *eh, with a side of hmm*
Who will win?  SF Signal

Best Fancast
The Coode Street Podcast, Jonathan Strahan & Gary K. Wolfe
Galactic Suburbia Podcast, Alisa Krasnostein, Alex Pierce, and Tansy Rayner Roberts (presenters) and Andrew Finch (producer)
SF Signal Podcast, John DeNardo and JP Frantz (presenters), Patrick Hester (producer)
SF Squeecast, Lynne M. Thomas, Seanan McGuire, Paul Cornell, Elizabeth Bear, and Catherynne M. Valente
StarShipSofa, Tony C. Smith

StarShipSofa is not a fancast.  It is an audio fiction magazine like EscapePod, etc.  It does not produce fan content.  It produces magazine content.  Stop putting it alongside podcasts which actually produce fan content...

As for the rest:  some good choices, some meh choices, and some choices that make me wonder whether quality is on the mind of the community.  I am still surprised that The Agony Column never makes the list, since it is one of the few podcasts out there that actually takes its interviews seriously (i.e., the interviewer actually reads the book, or tries, or at least reads the cover blurb).

I'm happy the category exists, though, and I suppose I will give some podcasts here a second chance.

Overall feeling:  *eh, whatever*
Who will win?  Coode Street (or I will break something*

Best Editor, Long Form
Lou Anders
Liz Gorinsky
Anne Lesley Groell
Patrick Nielsen Hayden
Betsy Wollheim

What?  No Jason Williams/Jeremy Lassen or Nick Mamatas?  Expect me to be very disappointed, then.  And I don't mean to imply that Anders, Gorinsky or Hayden don't deserve to be up there.  They do.  I just think some new names need to make this list (or at least names that are up to new things).

Of course, Groell and Wollheim are up there, which makes me happy.

Overall feeling:  *eh*
Who will win?  Gorinsky (I'm not really sure; it's a tie with Groell...)

Best Editor, Short Form
John Joseph Adams
Neil Clarke
Stanley Schmidt
Jonathan Strahan
Sheila Williams

No surprises here.  Good editors all.  Schmidt probably should win just because he's never won, but I suspect Adams will steal the show, or Williams.  Who knows?

Overall feeling:  *okay*
Who will win?  JJA

Best Professional Artist
Dan dos Santos
Bob Eggleton
Michael Komarck
Stephan Martiniere
John Picacio

It's a tie between Martiniere and Picacio for me, but I will, as always, lean towards the former because I love his work.  There are some great names here, of course, so I'm not disappointed in the slightest.

Overall feeling:  *smiles*
Who will win?  Picacio

Best Fan Artist
Brad W. Foster
Randall Munroe
Spring Schoenhuth
Maurine Starkey
Steve Stiles
Taral Wayne
Note: 6 nominees due to tie for final position.

I know nothing about these selections.  You all can argue about them in the comments.

Overall feeling:  *umm, what?*
Who will win?  No idea.

Best Fan Writer
James Bacon
Claire Brialey
Christopher J. Garcia
Jim C. Hines
Steven H Silver

The same names as before.  Except there is a new one here:  Jim C. Hines.  Can you guess who I hope will win?  If you guessed Hines, you are correct!  I think he contributes a lot of amazing thoughts to the community, even more so than Scalzi, who has been on this list before.  He certainly deserves to be there.  And he better win...

Overall feeling:  *eh, with a side of hmm*
Who will win?  Hines.

The John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer
Mur Lafferty
Stina Leicht
Karen Lord
Brad R. Torgersen
E. Lily Yu

I'm not sure Lafferty counts as a new writer, unless by "new" we mean "new professionally published writer," which I'm not convinced she is either.  Not that I dislike Lafferty or anything; this is more me being confused.

But the list is otherwise damned good.  Stina Leicht!  Karen Lord!  Holy hell, they are amazing authors.  And that means I have a big problem:  who do I root for?  I want them both to win.  They're both great.  I can't choose.  Don't make me.  Please.  PLEASE.  GAH!

Overall feeling:  *super smile*
Who will win?  Leicht.  LORD!  LEICHT!  LORDDDDDD!  LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEICHT!  Shut up.  No.  Yes.

Both of you shut up...

The comments are yours.  Feel free to rip me a new one.

Technically this should have gone up yesterday, but I'm now two poem behind.  Haikus, here I come!

I don't think there was a single piece of inspiration for this piece.  It is political, which means that Adam Callaway should not read it.  It also has some bad language, which means anyone who is easily offended by slurs and the like shouldn't read past this sentence.  Hopefully my intent will become clear in the reading.

Here goes:

No idea who took/made this picture, but I would like to credit said person...

You should see yourself in the mirror
when you talk about your country.
Think of all the nasty things you say:
"We're a warmongering,
woman-hating,
minority-beating,
liberty-raping,
stinking center of rectal excretion
in the shape of a nation."

"If only things could be better," you say.
"But they're not." Only,
you never quite say it like that
(even though you do).

So your colleges no longer teach American history
(even though they do)
and you believe religious people
shouldn't be allowed in public
(even though you do).
You want Iran to win the war
(that isn't actually happening (yet)).
You want terrorists to eat our babies
and kill mothers with bombs made
with tiny nail factories inside
to usher in the age of blood-thirsty,
soul-crushing radical secularism
with a side of socialism...

If only you'd agree with those who love America
(who haven't read a proper history book
since high school (though you have))
and who believe the return of Christ
is just another way of saying "America is great,"
because the second coming will happen in Kansas...

Maybe you'd be a real American then...

Not that you know what any of that means.
After all, you say the Founding Fathers
were treacherous, slave-owning sexists
who saw God as a personal pursuit,
not a life to be lived in His light
and shoved into one's brain with an Acme Hammer
like Wiley Coyote and common sense.

"That's all, folks!" you say,
"No offense.  We're all on the same side.
We want the same thing."  Except you don't.

So, you heathenous,
religion-estroying,
baby-murdering,
freedom-raping,
children-brainwashing,
education-fucking,
socialist, fascist, communist
pigdog whore-basket fecal smear...
You waste the air we breathe
when you talk about a better future
and jobs
and rights for
niggers, chinks, towel-heads,
cholos, coolies, homos and
the little sex objects that
need to be at home tending to our needs...
You love the poor too much,
and your country too little.

If you only knew how un-American you are.
Maybe you might try to be a better person...

Folks following me on Twitter will know that I have been working on a short story entitled "Great is the History of the Many-Skilled Artistes" (a working title).  The story was inspired by one of my graduate school classes this semester.  I'm still working on it, and expect it to be completed next month (once finals are done and over with).

The following is the first of four sections in the story.  Do let me know what you think in the comments!

Here goes:

I.  Tears in the Womb of Unture
“Never trust the snake who wears another man’s clothes.
They are prone to theft and death follows them at the tail.”
--Avaganze Proverb, from The Thirty-third Book of Unturekamo, Date Unknown
 The man in the bowl hat wanted to eat their mythology, he said.  Nothing could have shocked the Avaganze more, since their mythology was everything to them.  They had cultivated it for generations, built their culture around it with stunning clarity.  They believed they were gifted by Unture, Queen of the Divine Realm, to live among the stars singular and alone. 

But then the bowl hat man had come, stepping huge footprints onto their tiny world, demanding a sacrifice like Unture herself.  But he was not Unture.  He could not be.  No.  Unture’s breasts hung low on her chest, because they were full of milk for the children of the universe, and her hips always swayed to an unknown rhythm in the sky.  And yet the bowler hat man had arrived and eaten away those few myths the Avaganze had let drift in the wind, including the divine nature of their existence.  Already, they were hurting. 

The bowl hat man smiled, licking his pearly teeth with a pink tongue glistening in the blazing afternoon sun.  His blue eyes struck dissonant notes in the air as he stared at the collective before him.  He dusted off his black waistcoat and the pleats of his black pants; he did not clean the tan-brown mess from his shoes, as if aware that to do so would be pointless.  His blonde hair fluttered in the wind, shining like gold beneath a brow drenched in sparkling sweat, jettisoning off a sagging frog chin.  His face bore the mark of a thousand ages, but the scars had long since healed, living his skin the color of lilies. 

He spoke again with his authoritarian voice, pulling from the gut and pushing tooth-filled words into the air, which swam down among the little people before him and nibbled at their heels:  “You will feed me your myths, or your children will have no history.” 

They were so much tinier than the bowl hat man, but only because he had consumed so much already.  His gut protruded from his fine clothes, exposing the hairy, jiggling blob beneath.  Yet his slovenly appearance gave way to gentility in the shiny bracelets and trinkets that adorned his neck, wrists, and belt.  

The little people gathered their strength, and finally Rohirre—which in the tongue of Avaganze meant “speaker of convincing words”—stepped forward. 

“How are you called?” he said, peering several feet up into the hungry eyes of the bowler hat man, who licked his lips and giggled from his belly.  A little butterfly fluttered from his belly button, nibbling at the air with its curled protrusion before dispersing in the wind as ashes. 

“Ah, so the Avaganze speak, with such fine, simple words.”  He sucked his teeth effect.  “You may call me Mogron.”  An audible hiss filled the air as the Avaganze reeled away.  “Yes, I like that name.  It rests well on the tongue, does it not?  Oh, and how strongly it translates.  ‘He Who Plagues Unture’s Feet.’  How wonderful you have become.  How creative!  Oh, I will feast well here.  I will feast well indeed.” 

“What compels Mogron to our shores?” 

Mogron bowed low, bringing his eyes level with Rohirre’s, some three feet from the ground; Rohirre was the tallest of his kind with a projecting voice—he had earned his name.  “I have come to eat.  Your mythology compels me.  It demands eating, for the many in the sky who I serve.” 

The Avaganze hissed again, some even cursing. 

Rohirre stiffened, his jaw set against emotion, but revealing the fear lingering in his heart.  “The Ongrorre sent you to us?” 

Mogron laughed.  His voice vibrated in the sand beneath his feet.  “Is that what you call the sky beings?  Dwellers in the City?  Oh, how fascinating!”  He licked his lips, tasting the air with a long, pink tongue covered in warts the size of Rohirre’s fingertips.  “I will eat well here.” 

“You will go now, Mogron.  You will go back to the Ongrorre and tell them that you may not eat here.” 

“And why would I do that, little one?” 

“Because the lands of the Avaganze are for the Avaganze, to be tilled by the Avaganze, to be the haven for the bodies of the Avaganze.  You are not Avaganze.  You are one of the Ongrorre.  Unture’s bane.  Unture’s torturer.  And you belong in Ongrorre.  Now go.”  

Rohirre lifted his chin, proud of his accomplishment, proud of waves of emotion emanating from the dozens of Avaganze standing behind him.  He did not glance back, but he could see them in the back of his mind holding hands tight, faces determined and strong.  Once more, he had fulfilled his namesake. 

Mogron brought himself to his full height, sucking in a deep breath.  And then he laughed, not unkindly.  His belly jiggled, the hairs standing on end with excitement.  The pearly whites in his mouth glistened with spittle as the roar of joy spilled from his gut, emitting serpentine wisps of air that slithered through the air and around the feet of the Avaganze. 

Then Mogron lifted his right arm, pointing a finger in such a way that only an elder would to a child, and in one great cry of pain, Rohirre disintegrated into dust.  Mogron sniffed Rohirre into his lungs, licking his tongue against his lips.  A chuckle built up in his gut.  The Avaganze cried in silence, too shocked to speak out against the great beast before them.  Tears fell from their dark faces, rolling down to their feet until the earth beneath them became mud. 

“Now you will bring me your stories.  For I am hungry.” 

Somewhere in the crowd the lone voice of a baby cried out.

And there you have it.