Recipe: Layer Cake

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Layer some facts with trust and truths
and cut in one stick of butter
mix it well until all is smooth
then bless it once and cover

bake it ’til it’s golden crisp
serve quickly, piping hot
burn your tongue until it lisps
just like your half baked thoughts

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Five Cats

GRAND RAPIDS, MI – Five cats remain stuck up a tree just north of Webster street with townspeople at their wit’s fraying end wondering what to do about it.

The Grand Rapids police have claimed that it is the fire department’s responsibility to retrieve cats from municipal trees and have refused to take part in a rescue operation. The fire department, however, maintains that due to the sheer number of cats in the tree, there is evidence of a criminal behavior and will not interfere with a crime scene until evidence has been collected.

A few locals have tried taking the matter into their own hands. Peter Wilson was seen trying to scale the tree and take the cats down one by one but was stopped by vociferous protest from both the county animal shelter and Seventh Romans church. The animal shelter has determined that the cats have become wild and human interference would only destroy their precious, amazing spirit. The church parishioners feel that five cats up a tree must be God’s will.

This article has been translated into 653 viewpoints, 92 languages, and is distributed by 18,094 information carousels. Additions, subtractions and alterations have been made to the text. Speculative News Network not responsible for conclusions drawn from the report. 

dreamshadow

the dream of finding bones — teeth primarily — and fractured pieces, formerly limbs, the spine, and a jaw. All buried in moist, soft sediment by a chilly lake. The lake itself is still, surrounded by thick dewy grass. secluded and shadowed by many tall trees, it streams quietly away into a forest.  I touched your teeth, caressed them, trying to transpose and occupy your final moment before you descended, halfly, into the pond, torn asunder by some beast or cosmic force. What was on your mind in the blinding cold sunshine of that now-distant spring morning?

then the dream pivots to another theater of The After. a cavernous old train station. so grey it’s purple. alive but empty. I have your jewelry box. Most wouldn’t consider this a manly or likely object to be found in your possession but maybe that’s why it came to me and not to someone else? Urgently, I am rooting through it because — why? The train might come? Someone’s calling me away?  Within the box, I discover many pockets and secret hideaways — all containing rings and keepsakes from your vivacious travels. I am hoping to find some element of your truth: a picture, a note, something from which to derive meaning in your absence. I find nothing significant before I am awakened to the drudgery of another day among the living.

That Can’t Be Right

“But that can’t be right,” protested young Heppmurt to the monk. “There must be a logical and correct course of action.”

The monk was perched on his favorite boulder, smiling broadly, wetness standing out at the corners of his eyes. Was he laughing? Was he crying?

“No logic. No correct.” The monk repeated. Heppmurt paced for a time. He had journeyed ten nights and a day to see this old monk, in search of everlasting wisdom. Heppmurt then lost control of himself for a while. He kicked and he screamed. He threw down his pack. His angry cries carried for miles across the mountain range.

The monk carefully slid down his boulder. “Time for dinner,” he said and lurched back into his little hut.

Heppmurt stayed outside in silent protest for several hours. Then he quietly gathered his things and ventured inside the warm, dimly lit, hut.