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A CHRONICLE Chapter One: Maybe even king Glen was a young boy and, as all young boys must, he one day ventured forth into places that he had been expressly forbidden (by grownups, no less, who undoubtedly Knew Better) to venture forth into.  Nevertheless, forth he ventured, and eventually back he came.  And when he had returned, something about him had Grown Up.  At dinner, everyone noticed it.  Father remarked, "My, what a strong arm this boy has!  What a grip, what a set jaw, and look how tall!"  Mother smiled and said, "Yes, and look how well he eats his peas, just like a grownup.  You are definitely quite a young man now, Glen."  Littl

FELL FIRE Chapter 1: Seconday, Evenstar, First-Spring.  Madame Donnadey said I should make sure to practice my writing whenever I got the chance, so it didn't run away out of my head, and she even gave me this pen and a stack of clean paper—probably the nicest things I've ever actually owned, I mean that I didn't steal from someone.  So I guess I'll write about what happens to me every day before I got to bed and that way I'll remember how to make all the letters, and what order to put them in.  Be proud of me, Madame.   Today was a market day, so the main roads were packed with vendors yelling from carts and tents, waving handfuls of nu

L IS FOR ELEPHANT Jason Shepherd Nobody knows the zoo like I know the zoo.  I know exactly how many pounds of litter are used in the big cat cages each month.  I know how many baby penguins have been born in the penguin enclosure in the last twenty years.  I got to name one of them—I named him "Charlie".  He looked like a Charlie.  I know how many fingers have been lost to the crocodile pens since they were erected—it's three, by the way.  None of them mine, thank God.   And I know the real reason Mimsey the elephant had to die. You probably read about Mimsey in the paper.  An African elephant, captured in the wild and brought here to

TO FORGET The past Squirms inside me, with teeth A strange pale grub turned up by the clumsy spade of recollection And now, exposed to the sun, It goes steadily bad And worse. I do not wish to have been young. If I could expunge myself of the child I was In a bloodless abortion of memory I would chop that grub into bits And scatter it to oblivion.

pick up sticks (the urban mystic) The urban mystic, in his favored role Of wanderer, wild-eyed and deft of phrase, Shall haunt the rough and wind-embittered shoal With words and visions, prophecies and praise. What does he praise?  We shall not understand— Too cleverly disguised within the text— And we shall leave him prostrate and unmanned, So viciously and delicately unsexed. (The weight of Praise shall fall on you alone When all men's hearts are blacker than your own.) We have no time for prophets, songs or prayers But rather fill our time with scattered whim; We spend ourselves escaping worldly cares And idling in the crowd

HERE AND HEREAFTER Don't get too excited, but I've heard the rumor—all through the Silver City— the Day will be soon—the Day is at hand. He's preparing to open up the seal— you know the one— and in short order will dispense all manner of Justice upon them. I know, I know, you have your favorites among them, as we all do, but think of it like putting sick pets to sleep. It's a mercy. And it's not as if they haven't had it coming. It's not as if they haven't been warned. Mercy is our business, of course, but Judgment is our business as well. His too. And there's no questioning His Judgment. Surely you understand. Ign

ISMENE A play by Jason Shepherd Based on the works of His honor Sophocles (Enter Ismene, in wedding garb, and her uncle Creon, in worn finery.) Ismene Father, your sad countenance Hangs most dreadfully, this day above all, When I should see in your eyes The gladness that you have denied yourself For so many long years. Even on such an occasion as this, I can hear a painful moan Poised behind your lips.   Can you not give your unending sorrow A mere day's respite? Creon I fear, dear one, That the joyless can lend no joy, No matter what celebration is at hand. Were your unhappy father here to bear witnes