Fantastic tales: short, medium, & large; David Raffin thinks inside the box. It’s quiet there. But so dark. About/contact
*Metaphysics : Branch of philosophy dealing with first principles: abstract concepts such as being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.
Subscribe to Podcast
Subscribe to blog posts
Subscribe to News Letter
No upcoming events
Follow me on TwitterMy Tweets
Metaphysicist. Post-Humorist. Writer of Fantastic tales. Thinks inside the box. It's quiet there…but so dark.
Need domain hosting?
Category Archives: Books
“If you were a rabbit, in, say, 1956, let’s say you would spend most of your time readjusting your rabbit ears. Why? Well. Reasons of perception, my dear. Reasons of perception.”
– Father Rabbit pontificating about the nature of time, identity, and the perception of otherness¡ but he really just talks to himself.
You could see the top of the mountain from my house from far away, until it disintegrated into the atmosphere – putting it below the tree line.
The mountain rained down like gray snow. Turning mainland into sandy beach. It blew in the air like heavy smoke. It clogged standard vacuum cleaner filters. It ran down the river and heaped into tall mounds, now covered in grass, brush, and trees, masquerading as Hills. People scooped it up into glass jars which once had held preserves in order to store it in the cellar. To rise the status of even the most humble dwelling to top of the Hill. Visitors from afar who visited thereafter would inquire what happened to the mountain. Most were surprised to hear it had been re-distributed. Now that it was gone it belonged to everyone.
What is the relationship between being the judge of a pie baking contest, and the age old tradition of hiring on a food taster for royals with low approval ratings?
“It is a shame,” said the Queen to the jester, “for in addition to alerting me to potential poison, my taster would tell me which was good and which was bad. Indeed. Even which was the best. Two things in case of Tie!”
Then the queen laughed. Because the jester did something which invoked the response. However, neither of them considered how social roles would change inevitably through Time: how that which once invoked amusement would eventually become old hat, then unintelligible. The role of the jester would change. The role of the royal taster. Even the role of the queen herself, for anyone could be a queen, if but for a day, though the Powers would not be what they were.
“What is a Jack-o’-lantern?” she asked.
“It is a pumpkin, hollowed out, its flesh carved with a design, usually a face, and a candle placed inside turning it into a lantern. Do you not have them?”
“No. But why is it called Jack?”
“I don’t know. I suppose, since there is usually a face carved in it, it was given a name – Jack.”
“No. There is always a reason why,” she said.
The Jack-o’-lantern is related to the Will-o’-wisp. It literally means “Jack, of the lantern.” The Will-o’-wisp occurs in folklore throughout the world, in various forms, the lights seen in the distance being souls, lost souls. Usually witches.
Meanwhile, their erstwhile compadre, the Jack-o’-lantern exists in various folklores. Occasionally, it is known as Jack McLantern. For Jack was a wicked soul. And the devil one day came to claim him. But he made a deal with the devil. As one would sometimes, often, do in a folktale. For our dear protracted protagonist, a jack of all trades, was, in fact, a thief! And one day he was being chased by villagers. It was this day the devil came to claim his soul. But he made a deal with the devil. The devil protected him from the villagers. For Jack was more afraid of their wrath than the wrath of the evil one. And as part of the deal, the ever wily Jack, he made the devil promise that he would never go to Hell. And it was agreed. And Jack was off. He got off, Scott-free, or so he believed.
“Who is Scott?” she thought.
But sadly, he did not bargain for immortality. For he had heard the betrayals that occurred in such deals. So when he died he was, by his own bargain, disallowed entrance to Hell. While his additional years of wickedness insured he could also never enter the kingdom of Heaven. With nowhere to go Jack was doomed to roam the Earth forever as a Will-o’-wisp. However. Jack was ever a wily one. And his favorite food was a turnip, later morphing into a pumpkin, as things happen in folktales. And his spirit, a shiny, shimmering spirit, giving off the light of Hell fire, was trapped within. It turned a mundane foodstuff into a shining lantern. And it protected those who utilized it from spirits ever-more-so malevolent and powerful than Jack by showing them a terrible fate.
Hark, dear friends, a terrible fate
America ran down the sewer grate
Beavers shouted “damn!” But it was too late
They were attending a party at 10,000 a plate
“What to do?” said the otter to its mate
“Why I otter…” was the reply-but it was too late
The Dragon said, “We’ll consolidate!”
“We can own this parched landscape if we concoctitrate!”
“If anyone tries to stop us we’ll denunciate!”
“Berate. Sublimate. Keep both eyes on Homeplate. Trust in me and I will make this land again great!”
“The first thing we’ll do is seal up those drains.
So we can keep all the water when it rains.”
And the creatures sang the dragon’s grand refrains
And they praised his renowned business brains
So they sealed up those drains
And muddied those plains
And reminded that only a traitor complains
About the mixture of clean water with sewer drains
And how drinking sewage causes stomach pains
But complaints, the dragon, he disdains
For it is his golden reign.
Let it rain golden showers.
Let it rain. Let it rain.
The gentleman raised an eyebrow. He said, “I shan’t go to the circus for the freaks are revolting!“
His servants responded immediately. “If the freaks are revolting I must go and lend my immediate support! For I love a revolt! Revolution!”
Also the gentleman’s wife left him. For the bearded lady.
I can’t stand when Nazis try to lecture the public on politeness. But it does prove the old adage that those who can’t do will always try to teach. After all, the complaint that Nazis aren’t being treated fairly is nonsense. I’m willing to bake them a same sex wedding cake, same as anyone else.
The Nazis finally get some men in power, and still no respect. They just can’t win. What totalitarians hate most is people laughing at them. Their hatred is very serious to them. They expect you to respect their hate. Nazis love to be the center of attention but they hate being the butt of the joke.
The right wing is being torn apart slowly by the stress of having to take a stand on the NAZI issue. How uncomfortably sad for them. If they side with the Nazis they will be in the minority. They hate that. They hate minorities. And that makes them side with the… Soon they will be fighting each other in the streets. But at least the police will leave them alone.
Those who support Donald Trump are a shrinking minority. Which is awful for them, because they hate minorities. Reminder: The Republican party does not support this kind of hate. It supports a kind of hate with a slightly different presentation. Tactics are important.
Southerners were so angry following the Civil War, after John Wilkes Booth, they went and took over the Republican Party. It is interesting the Republican Party base is so patriotic. Considering they are made up primarily of confederate traitors and nazis. Abe Lincoln would never put up with this hogswallop. I suppose we would’ve let the south secede, had they not been holding hostages.
Because Nazis have misused the term feminazi they’re left with nothing to call their own women. Irksome, as they don’t consider them equal.
The Nazis have never done anything decent for humanity. Except invent toaster strudel.
Which I won’t eat on principle.
Mimes are confusing to nazis. They like them because of the white face. But hate them because they are mute. Then they realize they’re making fun of the mute. They like that. Then they decide the white face is insulting.
When you say something nice about nazis that means you’ve lost the argument.
Eric Trump says his father tunes out criticism to prevent suicidal urges. Even his own son. Making Hitler comparisons. Say what you will about Donald Trump. He loves his kids. They make excellent human shields.
Evangelicals vote Republican because someone explained the horror of the free market to them and they thought it sounded like a revelation.
For the record, I am against forest fires, hurricanes and typhoons. I have opinions about a lot of extremist weather conditions which are counter to those of the ruling elite.
Let’s keep things factual: the American medical system is the only death tax applicable to 99% of Americans. There is no surer way to separate a family from money than sickness. In the USA. There’s a whole industry built upon it.
Trump today signed an executive order abolishing hope. He stated, “There is no hope for me – why should anyone else have it?”
Without getting too in to it, I’d vote for Colin Kaepernick in the next election. He’d never stand for this BS.
The clown strolls down the sidewalk his balloon hanging behind him, half inflated, like a dog being taken for a walk. What slim string holds a balloon to its master? It is convention. To a balloon being half inflated is to hang dejected. Not up. Not down. Just there. Any dreams the balloon once had have long since popped. Where do balloons go when they sail away aimlessly skyward? To salvation? Or are they ultimately eaten by the sun? I cannot tell you. Because if you look too long at the balloon it means you’re taking your eyes off the clown. The balloon is a diversionary tactic employed by clowns throughout the known world. The oldest trick in the book. When you develop a tingling excitement regarding the advertisement “balloon tricks,” you have already been ensnared in the trap.
Balloons contain thoughts. Exclamations. Hopes and dreams. Each balloon, each balloon filled by a clown, is filled with thoughts, exclamations, hopes, and dreams. Every balloon a repository of such. Filled by a clown.
From where? From where?
These things encased in artificial skin. Divided from the real world by a colorful but transparent wall. Turning the outside world into a fun house mirror of horrors, every day and accute. Of one color. I have one viewpoint. The result of one vantage point. The result of a definite imprisonment at the awkward hands of a clown.
The clown sneaks up behind you and delivers a tentative touch. You feel deflated. There is laughter, not yours.
”But I don’t think I need to be reprogrammed,” said the robot.”That is exactly the kind of thing we all say when we need reprogrammed,” said the robot doctor.
”That does not compute,” said the robot.
”Hey, who’s the robot doctor here?” said the robot doctor. Then she laughed. Kind of a tinny mechanical laugh. Just a whiff of robotic condescension. The product of millions of dollars worth of research, that laugh. Let us be clear – it is not meant to reassure.