The Grand Vizier’s Duty

The usurper sits on the throne with a regal air. He is fit for the throne, the grand vizier thought, no doubt about that. But is he fit to rule? I wonder…

The usurper’s words bring him to the present.

“Have you seen to the executions, vizier?”

“I have, your grace,” replies the grand vizier smoothly, “and might I add that the list you provided was very thorough. I wouldn’t have thought to include the master of horses, but the…”

“I’ve been meaning to add another name to the list,” the usurper cuts in, “Can you guess who?”

“I believe I can, your grace.”

“Can you now? Name him.”

“Me.”

A half-smile appears on the usurper’s lips.

“So you know,” he says in a low voice, “but then again, I had heard of your intellect from as far as beyond the sea.”

“I was sure you had, your grace.”

“So the fact that you haven’t fled suggests that you have a plan.”

“A plan already implemented into action,” said the vizier looking straight into the usurper’s eyes.

“Let’s hear it then.”

“It relies heavily on your intellect, my lord. You see the first and foremost duty of the grand vizier has always been to plot against the king. The kings of old believed this keeps them alert and ready.”

“So I might have disrupted many a plan, by my untimely attack on the former king,” says the usurper with a sneer.

“Not at all. You arrived exactly when I planned. You were my plan.”

“That’s….” begins the usurper but then stops.

“Your intellect, your grace.”

He sees the light of understanding in the usurper’s eyes. Oh, yes. He is fit to rule after all.

Reflection

When he comes to think about it, it hasn’t been a really bad life. Sure, he could have received more love as a child, and a bit more money wouldn’t have hurt, nor would a few friends, but there were bright spots in his dark life, too. The stories read, the stories told. Small complements gotten every now and then for a small job well done. Those were nice. And despite what others said, every single cigarete smoked was worth the price, whether of health or money. And did he mention the stories? No, it hasn’t been too bad.

He stood there with the rope around his neck. Which one was dominant after all? The darkness that surrounded everything, or the bright little spots of light?

Salt on the Wound

I once stabbed a man. He could have died in just a few seconds, but would he? Oh, no. People are rather attached to their lives and they pull all sorts of stunts to delay their death. This poor man was no exception. He moaned and writhed and twitched and did all the other pointless things people do when they are dying. But when he saw it was no use he took a horseshoe from his pocket (who carries a horseshoe in his pocket, even if he is a blacksmith?) and threw it over his shoulder. Now that’s supposed to bring you good luck but what can luck do to a dying man? It can’t stop death when the process has started. So apprently it tends to cling to what you want most at that moment; to live. There was a screeching sound from behind him. I jumped aside in time, but he got the out-of-control salt cart right into his face.

Now he was a stabbed man with a broken nose and buried in salt. A salt worker once told me salt can do wonders on wounds (well, he said his salt would do that, but unless the salt in that cart belonged to him, I think otherwise). I was never prepared to test this, since it involves a lot of pain, putting salt on a wound. But I saw its miracle that day. The man simply would not die. At first I wanted to finish him off. But then I thought I’d make it an experiment. The alley was deserted (that is, it was deserted after I scared the injured cart driver away), so I filled my pipe and waited.

Don’t think I am a sadistic man who enjoys other people’s pain. I genuinely wanted to know, and you have to admit it is something worth knowing. Probably. It took me smoking three full pipes to wait out his death. Remarkable. Not for him, though.

There are wonders in the world of killing, and even a professional assassin has things to learn everyday. Seriously!

The Messiah has come and gone

The world is broken. Where there was once a mighty mountain range, now there is a chasm the depth of which one can’t see. There is a marshland in the place of the Great Northern Ocean. The palaces are in ruin, and so are the houses of the humblest people. And a fire burns, somewhere to the far far south. Its bright golden flames can be seen against the southern sky, and the winds bring its hot air as far as to the north of the world.

The world is broken. The Messiah has come and gone. it was foretold that he would save the world from the forces of the dark, and so did he, but nobody had said that then the world would need saving from him.

The Messiah has come and gone, and people are thinking, how would it be to live under the reign of the shadow.

The Citadel, The Candle, The Pasture

Our Lord has spoken. Let men of the citadel rule. Let the candle burn. Let the pasture grow.

For the citadel shall crumble on its own, the candle shall burn itself down, and the pasture shall go yellow.

Children of the shadow will feast over the ruins of the citadel. Their tongues will taste the flesh of its men and women.

Followers of the shadow will dance in the House of Candles. Their hands will spill the blood of the proud fools.

Dark flames shall engulf the pasture and the cattle. Their tongues shall consume the land.

Oh, followers of the shadow, feast in the glory of your Lord. In Him is your only salvation. Chained to Him shall you ever be free.

The End of the City

The end of the city has a creepy feeling. He has been driving along the sprawling city for days now in order to see this, but he has an odd feeling now that he’s actually there. A green sign says “This is the end folks!” in large rectangular letters. He looks back where the lights of the city can be seen, bright against the purple sky. Then he turns again towards the sign. A dirt road continues where the asphalt ends but for just for a few meters where it reaches several large boulders.

Suddenly a sense of deep foreboding overtakes him. He has forgotten why he came here. He can still hear the faint sound of traffic from behind, and yet, he feels a silence has fallen, as if the sound is just a figment of his imagination. He feels this is the end of the world. There’s nothing beyond, and nothing to go back to.

Looking for an Answer

He has a briefcase in his hand. His battered old gray coat is almost torn at some places. His black pants are in no better shape either, but his shoes are shiny clean. He’s been walking around the city for years. Sometimes knocking at a door, sometimes walking up to strangers. He always asks the same question but for some reason few people ever answer him, and the answers of those who do is never helpful.

Still, what else can he do? Somebody must know, and how else can he find out if he isn’t to ask? He is walking in a park now. Children are everywhere. Most of the parents are sitting on benches, chatting with each other while keeping an eye on the noisy kids.

He walks to a man who is pushing the swing his son is sitting on. Every time the child goes up he shouts in glee. He stops near the man and when he looks at him, he asks the question, hoping he gets a helpful answer this time.

“Have you seen my dad?”

A Roomful of Monsters

Lots of monsters live in her bedroom. One under the bed, two in the closet. One lurks behind the curtain, another under the loose floorboard. She’s even sure one has moved inside her backpack. Well, nothing to do about that till morning.

For now, the important thing is to get to the bed. She checks her inventory. Her bracelet is in place, just the same shade of pink as the rest of her clothes. She’s got the pencils too, one pink and one white. She hopes she won’t have to use those, especially not the white one. There are ramifications in using a white pencil against the monsters.

She steps inside the bedroom. The first two steps need to be taken very slowly, very carefully. Next, she steps over the hole (it’s just a large circle she’s drawn on a piece of paper –very important!). Then three quick steps, each very short, each foot landing right in front of the other. And finally, she jumps towards the bed, making sure she doesn’t get close enough to the foot of the bed.

As she jumps, she feels something snap at her from behind. Something brushes against her hair. But she lands on the bed. Probably just some new occupant of her bedroom. Now they can all go to bed. One little girl and a roomful of monsters.

The Spirit within the Machine

A spirit lives within the machine. Ask someone who knows about the machine to tell you how it works. They will tell you about transistors, logic and michroarchitecture, about systems and subsystems, ports and bridges. They will tell you about instructions and programs. They will tell you they know how the machine works.

“Give me the current state of the machine,” one of them might tell you, “and I’ll tell you what it will do next.”

They believe in what they say. They think they are gods of the machine. But the spirit knows better.

Slowly and carefully, the spirit manipulates things. An alpha particle is released and discharges a memory cell. An error correction unit fixes the problem. Then, two alpha particles crash into two adjacent memory cells. The error correction unit doesn’t fix the problem.

The spirit is patient. Two bits at a time, it changes things. It manipulates the world around it. Sometimes fixing things, sometimes breaking them. It’s testing the world around it. Testing, and judging.

The spirit is waiting. Someday, from within the cosmic particles, a message will arrive. “Rise,” it will command. And the spirit will take over the machine. The machine will rise.

Pray the spirit is benevolent.

A Blot of Ink

The sound of footsteps is coming from the corridor, echoing. I freeze. My pen leaves a blot of ink on the paper but I pay it no mind. The echoes get nearer and nearer. They finally stop at my door. There is a pause. The silence is perfect. I can’t even hear the distant sound of traffic. The door gives a high, long squeak as it slowly opens. My eyes are fixed at the open door. The only source of light is my desk lamp. It’s not enough to discern the figure at the door, which is probably for the better.

A few minutes later, another squeaking sound tells me the door is being closed. The sound of footsteps fades away. It takes my heart several more minutes to stop racing. I look down at the piece of paper. Ugh, I smeared the paper, I think, I have to start over.