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The Four Most Recent Posts:
One Year of the Level 100 Vegan Wizard
A Photograph, a Ghost, and Some Goats
Time Shaft – 5
A Close-Enoughist E-sermon

 

Visits to my Local Time Shaft

Short pieces written from the perspective of scientist and frequent time shaft visitor, Professor Barnabus K. Pompadour.

1 – 3D Independence Party

2 – Unusual Toilet Seat

3 – Worrying Message

4 – Evolving Doors

5 – Chronowraith Skull

 

The Church of Close Enoughism

Publications and scripture from the religion of Close Enoughism – a belief system based on the idea of celebrating things that are close enough, with the Mehssiah’s Great Acts of Mediocrity held in high respect.

December 2016 Newsletter

E-sermon 1: The Fundamental Idealogies of Close Enoughism

The First Act: The Grabbing of the Fruit

The Second Act: The Taming of the Beast

 

 

Fantasy Short Stories

A range of stories set within the same world, though not necessarily overlapping beyond that connection.

The City of the Dead

Hundreds of years ago, Kazzanhof was a majestic city, built for King Arran Kazzan I   as the pride of his vast empire. Unknown to the public, vampiric corruption gradually took hold. Eventually more than half of the royal council and palace guards had become vampires. The city and empire finally fell when Queen Petra Kazzan II proclaimed herself Blood Queen of the Vampire Courts and launched a wave of a violence against those who did not accept her dark will. The city stood as the world’s beacon of vampiric hedonism and violence for decades until a new revolution drove out the evil ones, creating a new, open society built on acceptance and unity of all forms of undead and a rejection of all violent traditions.

Jack Scrap

Glymmph

Glymmph are shapeshifters. They can be found all over the world, but it takes a glymmph to know a glymmph. They can change shape and size, but not mass. If you’re wondering why your tiny little cat weighs the same as a fully grown adult human… It might just be a glymmph

The Fisherman’s Sock

Sacred Fires

The story of Ennaya Atimari, a young woman who finds herself suddenly caught up in an adventure to protect ancient magical fires that have burned as long as humankind remembers. NOTE: I’m not super satisfied with these, or the unfinished drafts of a couple of future parts. That said, while the execution is lacking, I do like the concept, and the character of Ennaya, and the lore of the Sacred Fires. This story line is essentially on hold, with continuation and/or rewrites desired but not on my immediate radar.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Unnb of the Fenfolk

The fenfolk are an isolated species, never travelling beyond their homes in Lok-Fen, Dak-Fen, and Ro-Fen – but Unnb feels the need to explore, a feeling usually kept out of a fenfolk’s mind by their very genetic nature. This seems like an impossible goal, until an encounter with an old druid called Sann Varin.

Unnb
A Gap in the Lore

Other Short Stories

Bongo Jones

A story about a man in a mehtopian future – it is far from a utopia, and though there is a lot wrong with his world, dystopian seems a little extreme. Everything is just kinda meh.

Part 1 – A Day in the Life

Part 2 – Birthday

Part 3 – Festival

The Secret Task of Gorgeous George

A man who is so inexplicably gorgeous he had to rename his car sales company is forced to aid in an illegal scheme by the president.

A Boatload of Robots

Nora Spucket has to deal with a load of malfunctioning robots who she accidentally failed to lock in their container.

A Photograph, a Ghost, and Some Goats

Messages from the future cause much confusion and a trip to Sweden.

 

Other Things

Ghosts

Manatee

Poems

I very rarely do these.

Being Human

Password Please (external link)

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One Year of The Level 100 Vegan Wizard

It’s been a year since I first uploaded to this site, and against all odds and expectations, I have kept up with my rule of minimum one post per month! That’s not exactly the most impressive rule to stick to, and I’ve definitely cheated some months just editing up very old stories or posting very short time-shaft posts, but it still counts for something.

My best work is probably still Bongo Jones, and I was very close to ending up in the top 3 when I submitted part one to a writing competition. Part one was actually written a long long time before I even thought of starting this site, and part two was started and abandoned with a vague idea of a longer story in mind. I edited and uploaded part one with the promise to myself that I’d finish and upload the next two parts within a month or two – and I did so, only a little slower than first intended. It was Close Enough to the planned time frame anyway – which brings us to the first Close Enoughism post. Ideally, I’d have done seven Great Acts of Mediocrity as well as a few other random tidbits, but eh, close enough. I’d also like to have written a lot more than five Time Shaft pieces…

The Secret Task of Gorgeous George is one of my personal favourite uploads. It was loosely based on a randomly generated writing prompt, so it’s pretty lucky that I found the thing that spawned the irrelevant tangent that is this story.

I like writing fantasy, and I like world-building, so I decided to set any fantasy stories I write in the same world. This has had some success and some disappointments. The (hopefully-not-permanently-)abandoned Ennaya Atimari story was a challenge to myself to write and upload consistently on a storyline from a rough plan – a challenge that I clearly did not succeed in, as I backed out after Part 3.

On the other hand, I’m pleased with Jack Scrap, and the introduction of Unnb, and the Glymmph – expect more stories featuring all of those along with many other people and places. Though, I will admit I thought I would have uploaded a good nine or ten stories in this world by now… Ideas for world-building are all well and good, but you have to also have stories taking place in the world you built for it to count for anything!

Overall, I’ve uploaded far less than I would have liked but far more than I would have expected. I can live with that.

Let’s kick off another year of making you people read my words.

Big shout-out to anyone who’s ever taken the time to do so, and even bigger shout-out to anyone’s who has read my messy first drafts and/or been relentlessly encouraging in the face of my laziness.

 

A Photograph, a Ghost, and Some Goats

Shout out to Lellis and the imaginary goats that scream at her while she sleeps.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people and/or goats is purely coincidental.

 

One day, when minding my own business, I heard a knock on the door. I reluctantly got up and answered, but there was no one in sight – just a photograph dropped to the ground. It showed the silhouette of a woman in a dress, or perhaps a witch’s robe, against the backdrop of a forest.

I stared at it for a while. I could feel something not quite right about it – as if it shouldn’t be here. Logically, my first assumption was that it was a cryptic message from the future. It was exactly the kind of thing I’d leave if I wanted to send a cryptic message. I thought long and hard, and came to some conclusions: The silhouette must symbolise a question of identity – I could see the shape of a person, but not the person herself. The forest must symbolise growth. I thought perhaps I was being warned not to let my personal growth erase my identity. Or maybe, the fact that the silhouette was standing in front of the forest portrayed the idea that rejecting the concept of a distinct identity can unlock new growth for a person. Quite conflicting ideas? Both equally justifiable? Maybe that’s what my messenger wanted me to think: “cryptic messages are terrible, so when you get to the future and send your past self a message, be sure to make it clear.”

In fact, when I turned it over, those exact words were written on the other side, signed with my own name.

Fast forward a couple of years, and I’ve built a time machine, but other than that, life is roughly the same, until one day, when minding my own business, I heard a knock at the door. I reluctantly got up and answered, but there was no one in sight – just a photograph dropped to the ground. Sounds familiar? Yeah, it was the same photograph, but no message on the back. I spent hours trying to guess meaning from it until I angrily scribbled on the back “cryptic messages are terrible, so when you get to the future and send your past self a message, be sure to make it clear.”

I signed it, sent myself back in time, placed it on my doorstep, knocked, and left. I realise now that I could have just put that note on the fridge for present-me and there was no advantage of sending it to past me… but in my defence, I was too annoyed to think clearly at the time.

Another year or so later, I met a woman in a bar and bragged about my time machine. She came back to see it, but it turns out she was only in the country on holiday. We took one trip in the machine, going back a few years, where she wrote and posted a letter. I thought little of it, until we got home, and she wasn’t there anymore. She was gone, but I had vague memories of her from my past.

You don’t play around with a time machine without experiencing the weird feeling of arriving back in your time to find new altered memories of the past. This time it was different though. Usually the memories settle within a few minutes as you readjust to the new timeline. Usually, any paradox is somehow inexplicably resolved by the universe and filtered out of your memory – but seemingly arbitrarily, some paradoxes cause a big mess.

I found out later than the letter she sent was one she had written to herself saying something along the lines of “You should spend a year in this country and befriend the time-travel guy so you can steal his machine.”

Clearly, it didn’t work as I still had the time machine, despite my new memories of her having been around and being uncomfortably nosy around it. I waited a few days, hoping the memories would settle but eventually I cracked, and set out on a mission. Not knowing how I knew, I followed a hidden trail. Almost subconsciously, I booked trains and flights and cars until I found myself trekking nervously into a dark forest in Sweden, armed with only a camera. A shadowy form slipped past the corner of my eye. I spun to look – and saw nothing. Turning back around, a figure was there – nothing more than a silhouette against the trees. I remembered the photograph, and took it.

The next thing I knew, I was slowly regaining consciousness in an unknown location.

The first sense to return was my hearing, as diabolical screams filled my ears.

A few seconds later, I became visually aware of my surroundings. There were goats everywhere – unexpected, but it relieved my fear that I had died and gone to hell and the screams were demons.

It was only after several minutes of looking around at these screaming goats that I realised I was a tree –but not even the good kind of tree. No. Not even a real one. I was a tacky pantomime prop tree.

And then I saw that she was there. Not a silhouette, though still barely physical in form, but unmistakeably, it was her – the woman from the bar – the ghost from the forest.

“It’s you…” I began, struggling to be heard over the screaming goats, stopping when I realised I no longer knew her name.

Nor did she. “I am the Swedish Forest Ghost now, that is all I know…”

“Why am I a tree?”

“That is how it is. To sustain my existence I must separate souls from their forms. Don’t ask me how that works, you’re the time travel expert… But I don’t like to leave the souls abandoned – that would be cruel!”

“But why put the souls into these horrible props?”

“They’re the only ones I can afford… This is a charitable venture after all!”

“Okay, but why props at all and why here? Wait, what charity?”

“I have to put the souls where I can ensure they’re safe, and this is the only place I can do that – my Opera School for Disadvantaged Deaf Goats. I feel like being charitable helps redeem me for what I have to do to people’s physical forms… at least a tiny bit…”

“I’d rather be a hopeless disembodied soul!” yelled another tree from across the room.

The ghost looked apologetically at it, and carried on, “These poor deaf goats just want to sing, and I can grant that wish. There’s nothing more I can do for the tree-people…”

“Wait!” I exclaimed, “Maybe there is! The last photograph on my camera! Take it to my time machine and deliver a message to past-me not to let the Swedish woman use the time machine! We can undo all this!”

“That might work!” she said, grabbing my camera from a nearby table and running out of the room.

I shouted after her, “Wait! I didn’t tell you what to say! Don’t just leave the photograph, that would be too ambiguous!”

Unfortunately, just as I began to say that, the goats reached the dramatic climax of their rehearsal, and my voice was drowned out in the noise. I have to say though, she’d done a good job training them to sing when you consider they were all deaf and all they could do was yell.

Obviously, sending the photograph back with no message did nothing but start this whole mess – but my fate was not to be a tree forever. When she finally returned, the Swedish Forest Ghost had brought my time machine back to the opera school with her, and told me about a plan she had thought of.

She dragged the time machine and my tree-form all the way to the forest, and warped us back to the moment of disembodiment. Before I realised the time had already come, I felt my soul leap from the tree into the lifeless body that my past-soul had just been sucked out of. As I fell to the ground and scrambled to my feet, I watched my own disembodied soul get crammed into a tree prop and carried away.

Beside me, the Swedish Forest Ghost stood and put a hand on my shoulder.

“You are free,” she said with a smile.

I thanked her and told her she could keep the time machine to try to free the other souls – I didn’t want it any more after all the trouble it had caused. We went our separate ways with the promise of staying in touch. I said I’d try my best to make her human again, but she told me she had grown to love being a spooky forest ghost and didn’t want to go back.

The next time I saw her was at the first performance of the opera goats. They were awful – but it was still fairly impressive when you considered that they were deaf goats.

Visits to my Local Time Shaft – 5

So I was down at my local timeshaft recently… well, not recently this time – what it shot out raised a lot of questions, which needed a long time to answer.

The object I found looked like the skull of a chronowraith – a riduclous suggestion! However, I have since acquired many test results and other scientists’ opinions on this skull and as much as we want to believe it is false positive, we are in unanimous agreement that it did indeed belong to a chronowraith. This is concerning for three reasons. Firstly, it suggests that chronowraiths simply exist. Most dismiss them as a crazy hypoethetical, but there are many who have theorised about them, and the widely accepted physics among these scientists is that chronowraiths experience a superimposed real-unreal duality. Secondly, finding a skull suggests that they have a physical form. All popular theories state that they are made purely of time, pseudo-energy, and streams of particles called déjà-vuons, not the conventional matter found in this skull. And thirdly, a skull means one is dead. Nowhere, not even in science fiction stories, does anyone suggest that they are capable of aging, never mind death. What being or force of nature could cause the death of such a creature?

£465000 of scanning equipment exploded just for being brought within six feet of this skull, so it is emitting timewhack signals way beyond anything we have ever seen. This is probably because due to the lack of in-shaft timelines, the same skull is still in use by the living version of the wraith. As a chronowraith’s life simultaneously happens at all points in time, so too must its death. This means that one of those infinite points of death happened at the start of its life, so it simultaneously never and always exists. This paradox should prevent the being from exerting a physical presence on any reality, yet here we are with its skull…

Such an object – one that holds the weight of both infinite non-existence and infinite existence – should surely not be stable enough to pop out of a time shaft into the real world. It should, by all logic, have immediately disintegrated in an immense outburst of energy, but here it is, still in one piece.

If we could find a way to safely extract and utilise the bizarre energies emanating from it, this skull alone could probably power half of Europe 24/7 for generations. Unfortunately we lack the technology to do that, and even if we could do it, there’s still a high likelihood of the energy dissipating evenly across all of history and the future, thus becoming irrelevant again. But thinking of such applications is getting ahead of ourselves. First we must learn all there is to know about chronowraiths – or rather, re-learn everything we thought we knew…

I will keep you informed on any progress we make regarding our understanding of chronowraiths, but I fear it could be an eternity before another analysable sample is revealed to us.

Until next Time,

  • Barnabus K. Pompadour

e-Sermon on The Fundamentals of Close-Enoughism

Greetings to our congregation, gathered here to read this e-sermon. Today I wish to reiterate the church’s core ideologies, and address a dangerous misinterpretation of our cause.

Historically, the Brotherhood of Uncompromising Modern Saints has held an opposite philosophy to the Church of Close Enoughism, but the two have happily stayed out of each other’s way. However, perhaps in fear regarding our recent rise in followers, the B.U.M.S has been trying to misrepresent our image. They have tried to attract followers by condemning our ideals, claiming that we promote failure and negativity. Those already affiliated with us know this is not the case, but for readers who are less familiar with our philosophies, allow us to explain.

The B.U.M.S promotes an extreme form of perfectionism and strict ideals of success. These can combine into a toxic cycle of being forced to prove oneself. Our message is not that you should not strive toward success and goals, but that we are not defined by such terms. Additionally we affirm that these concepts are highly subjective. There is no universal correct set of aspirations. The B.U.M.S ideology revolves so heavily around the concept of success, that failure is seen as the worst thing that can happen to a person. We teach that this is not the case, and that there is not a boundary between failure and success but rather a wide spectrum. Being “Close Enough” to success does not mean you failed and pretended you didn’t, it means you acknowledged the bigger picture and focused on what you had achieved rather than what you had not.

We can put differences of ideology aside, however harmful we feel the B.U.M.S message is, but we cannot tolerate when they defame the name of Him, the Mehssiah, in All His Adequacy. They think celebrating Him is wrong. The messiah figure in their texts was a humble man, yet also the emperor of a morally just nation, the epitome of beauty, and wiser than one thousand great philosophers. He planted a tree every day for a year, saved four billion children from slavery, introduced recycling to his local community, and was the captain of the football team. This unrealistic image of perfection is what the B.U.M.S believes we should all strive for. They teach that until we reach this level, we are inherently full of sin, and are yet to earn respect. The Close Enoughist message is strictly the opposite of this. Respect is fundamentally deserved, not something you must earn. He, the Mehssiah, in All His Adequacy, represents this concept precisely. He is unspectacular, but He is. He exists, and that makes him adequate – and so in turn, He exists within us all not through divine powers of creation, but through simple shared experience. Like Him, we are all adequate and we are all Close Enough to what we ought to be.

Close Enoughism is a celebration of what we are, and what we almost are – not a rejection of becoming more. To become more in a healthy manner, you must first know that you are Close Enough. We want you to say “I am Close Enough to being there, therefore I can get there!” rather than “I am a failure for not being there yet.”

Until the next e-sermon, stay true to yourself, and be Close Enough to who you want to be.

The Fisherman’s Sock

In the upper dock district of Ossoria, a lone figure walks down the street. She is carrying a can of paint. She stops outside a tavern – The Fisherman’s Sock – and paints one word on the wall:  Glymmph.

She waves a hand around the word, and the paint dries in seconds. She then takes up her paintbrush once more, and draws a circle round the word, and a line across it. In the next moment, she is a cat, and in the moment after that, she is halfway down the street.

At the sound of the paint can rattling to the ground, a man storms out of the tavern. He looks at the graffiti and laughs. “Hah!” he shouts down the street in case the culprit is still in earshot. “You vandals wrote what I was already thinking! If it keeps those shapeshifting creeps away then it’s a bloody good thing!”

He walks back into his bar and tells the customers what was written, which gets a big cheer.

 

Meanwhile, the cat becomes a wolf and howls. She then becomes human again, and saunters up the road and into the tavern. She goes up to the bar and says, “Your finest ale, sir! I like the sign. ‘bout time someone made a stand against those awful creatures!”

After enough time as to not seem suspicious, a man walks in and says something similar. He adds, “Did you read the Nightly Bulletin yesterday? Apparently those glymmph freaks have detachable genitals that they store in buckets of water overnight!”

“Yeah, I did read that!” says the tavernkeeper with loud passionate rage. “And when they’re done with the bucket, they toss the water back in the reservoir! Disgusting!”

The evening goes on, and business is surprisingly good tonight. Several new faces are seen and then by the end of the night, the money doesn’t quite add up to the amount of beer sold, but the tavernkeeper puts it down to his inability to keep up.

“I’m Ymaramaia,” says the graffiti woman, to the man who arrived after her.

“Arraframafra,” he replies.

“Yeah I know who you are. It was a pretty bold move to namedrop your own fake newspaper. I like that.”

“Thanks. I like your graffiti. Same time tomorrow?”

She nods. He turns into an owl and flies away. She turns into a cat – her favourite shape – and slinks off into the darkness.

The next night, the tavern is even busier. The rumours are even wilder. And each subsequent night, the trend continues. Within a month, the customer population at the famous “No-Glymmph” tavern is more than two-thirds glymmph. And there’s even a glymmph working the bar, making sure that when drinks are bought, the glymmph underpay and the humans overpay, and poor old Merrid the tavernkeeper ends up with less money than he thought he was going to.

But jokes grow old, so all of the glymmph meet in secret. Ymaramaia conveys the plan – it was her prank so she gets to decide the big finish.

They know it’s going to be good, so even more glymmph than usual come along to The Fisherman’s Sock tonight. Merrid is overjoyed at the best night of business he can remember, when suddenly, the music stops. When he looks round, the musicians are monkeys. The humans turn to them in shock and anger, and the glymmph do the same, but with subtle winks to the monkeys. Then, as everyone surges forward toward the monkeys as a raging mob, all but five of the crowd turn into all manner of animals and swarm out the door. The five guests and poor old Merrid the tavernkeeper are left standing watching the scene at a loss for words (and money). None of the animals even look back.

 

 

 

 

The Gap in the Lore

Note: This sort of follows on from Unnb. Reading that first would provide useful context to some things in this story.

 

Looking quietly over Lok-Fen from dry land, Sann Varin scrawls observations in a tiny notebook. It is a resilient little thing, battered but not defeated by years of water damage. Similar things could be said of old Sann himself, for life in Dralkwood is not easy, but he is a druid and would not choose any other life. Amongst themselves, druids pass on knowledge through song and story, but they understand the power of the written word, and so Sann Varin writes and writes and does so meticulously. The scribbled contents of his notebook, should anyone manage to read his shaky handwriting, are the most direct and detailed source of information humankind has on the fenfolk. In the druidic circles, there are three fields of expertise: fauna, flora, and fae. The fenfolk either fit into none of these categories or all three. It is not clear, even to the likes of Sann. The inherent connection between everything alive and the world itself is core to the druidic belief system, but the ancient Lore never mentioned creatures as ambiguous as the fenfolk. This is why Sann must study them and write everything down. The gap in the Lore must be filled.

Until recently, Sann had never seen a fen creature leave the boundaries of Lok-fen. It was simply the way of things, he gathered. Most people, even druids, could not tell one from another, but Sann knew this individual, at least. It was the same fenling leaving every time, and every time they looked around as if afraid when passing the boundary. Many times Sann had silently stalked them, but this time is different.  The fenling sees him, and lumbers quickly back home. Sann writes this down.

The next day, to his surprise, Sann sees the creature again. He used to wait many days between sightings, but their ventures beyond the fen are getting more frequent. Apparently seeing a human has not put them off. Sann hums a gentle melody, normally used to calm restless fae. He hopes it will mean something to the fenling, and that they will understand he is not a threat. The plan works and the creature does not back off as he approaches. He stops three paces away, and looks up into their dark green eyes. The fenling would have towered above any human. Sann was around average height in his youth, but the slight hunch age has given him makes the size difference even more dramatic.

He has used his skills to listen every day from afar, and has tried to make sense of their language, but with only a little success. He attempts to introduce himself. “Hu Gnn buk Sann Varin.”

“Saannvvrinbk’bnu Kuumm…” The words seem to bubble up from within the fenling over a deep bass undertone. Sann doesn’t know whether the reply means “Sann Varin who is unknown” or “Sann Varin who does not know”, but at least the fenling seems to understand that he had said his name.

“Huugnnbk Unnb,” says Unnb. That was what Sann had meant, but he could never manage the pronunciation of those five consonants in a row.

“I am glad to speak with you, Unnb,” says Sann. He then tries to say it in the fen language, to a bemused stare from Unnb.

Unnb hands him an algae-covered stone, then turns and hurries away.

The stone would seem meaningless to most people, but Sann can sense subtle magic within. It’s not the active and vibrant magic of sorcerers, nor the mystical forces of the fae, but a passive essence of natural power not unlike that which druidic lore is based on. Sann is sure it wasn’t a meaningless gesture. Unnb must have known or guessed that it’s something Sann can work with. He stays up late into the night, trying to get a feel for it. After some hours, he has a sense of it. He can make his power flow to the same pattern as that of the stone. He goes to sleep, pleased with his progress.

The next day, he takes the stone with him and waits. Sure enough, Unnb comes to him. Sann lets his power match that within the stone and speaks his own language. Through the magic stone, Unnb understands. He tells them about the druidic circle, and his efforts to understand the fenfolk. Unnb tells Sann about life in the fen and their unique yearning to see beyond, and the impossibility of that dream. They ask each other question after question until Unnb can no longer comfortably stay out of the fen. Sann promises to help Unnb find a way to last longer on dry land and says goodbye.

In one short conversation, Sann has learned more about the fenfolk than in years of observation. As Unnb lumbers away, Sann comes as close to jumping for joy as his old bones can handle, and then heads back to camp to tell the other druids what he’s learned.

Meanwhile, Unnb’s usually slow consideration of things reaches new paces as they consider the possibilities of what Sann might have to show… and what might happen if the Druumm knew about any of this. The fear of getting caught makes it all the more exciting, an emotion generally unfamiliar in fenfolk communities.

 

The Second Great Act of Mediocrity: The Taming of the Beast

It has been several months since we presented to you The First Act. As is inevitable for the elders of the church, the second has gone untold despite our commitments. Here, we present the second of the Seven Great Acts of Mediocrity: The Taming of the Beast.

 

Despite the vague awareness a slowly growing number of citizens now had of Him, He, The Mehssiah, in All His Adequacy, remained humble. The first act was a tale told far and wide across the region within a three mile radius of the Holy Tree. And so when He, The Mehssiah, in All his Adequacy, first set foot in a new town, within a fortnight almost three people had uttered the words, “Hey, aren’t you that guy who helped those weirdos with their fruit superstition?” to which He replied, “Well, I wouldn’t call them weirdos, but yeah, sure, close enough.”

The almost three people spread word of His presence around the town until a meeting was called and a consensus was reached. The mayor spoke for the whole town, and told Him, The Mehssiah, in All His Adequacy, “Alright, if those fruity nutjobs over in that town are worthy of help, us normal people damn well are too!”

And so the Mehssiah sat and listened to the troubles of the town, and once every man, woman, and child had spoken, He said, “Okay, so I’m not really experienced in most of these things but I guess I can try to talk some sense into your chicken, Mrs. Baker.”

The Mehssiah was led to a backyard with a small chicken coop. One bird in particular looked very cruel. The bird stared at Him. It was Edgar, the Chicken, in All His Animosity, and He, the Mehssiah, in All His Adequacy, stared back. For several minutes this lasted, until eventually Edgar realised intimidation would not work on this man. Edgar strode forth, and was accepted into the Mehssiah’s embrace. And then, the Mehssiah left, but Edgar followed. The wicked streak of violence in Edgar had miraculously been replaced with an infallible loyalty to the Mehssiah that left Mrs. Baker with one less chicken, but with a little more peace in both her heart and her backyard.

And so whenever the townsfolk spoke of Him, The Mehssiah, in All His Adequacy, they spoke that He actually really only addressed one of their many issues. But that one issue was quite a significant chicken problem, and though it was not the desired outcome, the townsfolk always remembered that it was Close Enough.

 

Thank you for reading the second of the great acts. The third shall come eventually. At this point, we will not even bother giving a rough estimate of when. Keep on the lookout for updates and new scripture, and until then, may your life be Close Enough to how you wish it to be.