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October 03, 2005
Volume 7, Issue 3
Welcome home.
D: The Girl With The Sun In Her Head
My suitcase is in the hallway, my jacket entangled with one of her shoes halfway inside one sleeve. Her scarf snakes its way across the threshold to the study, tantalizingly close to my tie as it hangs from the door knob. My shirt, tossed languorously in an arc across the back of the couch, embraces her discarded summer dress with cuffs that weren’t unbuttoned. Her panties peek out from under the coffee table at the matching bra strewn aside in anxious frustration. My suit pants and boxers block the bedroom door slightly ajar.
It is good to be home again.
The Eschatologist: Sing, O Muse
What a fine "how do you do".
After such a long trip, you'd think I'd be able to come home, kick back, and put up the sandals. But no. I've got this house full of people eating my food, drinking my best wine and generally pissing me off.
Can I trust Penelope? My old nurse, seeing through my disguise, says she's all good.
The archery contest was a joke. None of those assholes could even string the bow, let alone shoot through twelve axes. Go me!
I thanked Telemachus for the help, but I didn't need it. Just ask Scylla.
Laurence - Worth many more
After eighteen years in the hands of the Arabs, Colonel Rabin was finally coming home.
His plane landed just as the buses full of cheering and jeering prisoners were sent off to the border. Their vicious chants echoed in the distance.
"Vermin," muttered one of the honor guard.
Rabin's wife waited as the plane rolled to a stop.
The cargo doors opened, and her husband's casket was unloaded.
"Why is one dead man worth dozens of live terrorists?" asked the honor guard.
"He's worth far more than that," said his commander. "And that is to the shame of the enemy."