Samo SF

[Roger Sanchez]

Šta znači "gracilna vrsta"? Ovaj besmrtni život i beskrajno mučenje me podsećaju na klasik Usta nemam a vrištati moram Harlana Elisona. Znam da nije to, samo me podsetilo. :)

Ne sjećam se točno, možda se radilo o tome da su fizički nejaki, a možda da im je tehnologija bila 'elegantna'. Koliko se sjećam, radi se o muško-ženskom par gdje jedan drugom priča kako su njihovi znanstvenici po zemljom (gdje su ih natjerali isprva nadmoćni ljudski invazori) spremali osvetu godinama. Jednog dana sve je bilo spremno i oni su pustili plin (virus/otrov/nešto treće?) na tada već opuštene ljude-napadače koji nisu ni znali da se oni negdje skrivaju. Na kraju postoje hrpe bespomoćnih paraliziranih ljudova kojima oni mogu raditi što hoće, rezuckati, udarati, bosti u oči itd.... Oni puni mržnje (kojom je prožeta cijela priča) prilaze jednom, kojem se vidi nijemi krik & suza u oku.... Strong stuff.Da li je možda Galaksija objavljivala kao podlistak kratki SF u '80tima? To je jedino preostalo odakle sam to mogao pročitati.

[Agni]

Oni puni mržnje (kojom je prožeta cijela priča) prilaze jednom, kojem se vidi nijemi krik & suza u oku....

I sta je onda bilo?

[Roger Sanchez]

I sta je onda bilo?

Kraj priče. :D Ali pretpostavljam da su našem bratu iz budućnosti radili gadne stvari.

[distro04]

Ne sjećam se točno, možda se radilo o tome da su fizički nejaki, a možda da im je tehnologija bila 'elegantna'. Koliko se sjećam, radi se o muško-ženskom par gdje jedan drugom priča kako su njihovi znanstvenici po zemljom (gdje su ih natjerali isprva nadmoćni ljudski invazori) spremali osvetu godinama. Jednog dana sve je bilo spremno i oni su pustili plin (virus/otrov/nešto treće?) na tada već opuštene ljude-napadače koji nisu ni znali da se oni negdje skrivaju. Na kraju postoje hrpe bespomoćnih paraliziranih ljudova kojima oni mogu raditi što hoće, rezuckati, udarati, bosti u oči itd.... Oni puni mržnje (kojom je prožeta cijela priča) prilaze jednom, kojem se vidi nijemi krik & suza u oku.... Strong stuff.Da li je možda Galaksija objavljivala kao podlistak kratki SF u '80tima? To je jedino preostalo odakle sam to mogao pročitati.

Galaksija je imala samo po jednu priču, bar tokom nekog perioda (kraj 70, početak 80, možda) koliko se ja sećam. Da nije Andromeda ili Monolit ili... Politikin zabavnik (tamo je bilo nekoliko ako ne i više lepih priča, doduše uglavnom skraćenih verzija). Takođe, Polaris je imao dve-tri antologije priča (84-85). Takođe imam sve Sirijuse i Alefe i ne sećam se ove priče (na žalost nemam Andromede i Monolite).

[Dankan Ajdaho]

Šta znači "gracilna vrsta"? Ovaj besmrtni život i beskrajno mučenje me podsećaju na klasik Usta nemam a vrištati moram Harlana Elisona. Znam da nije to, samo me podsetilo. :)

Ovo je jedna od desetak najboljih priča koje sam ikada pročitao (a vala sam se načitao).

Ne sjećam se točno, možda se radilo o tome da su fizički nejaki, a možda da im je tehnologija bila 'elegantna'. Koliko se sjećam, radi se o muško-ženskom par gdje jedan drugom priča kako su njihovi znanstvenici po zemljom (gdje su ih natjerali isprva nadmoćni ljudski invazori) spremali osvetu godinama. Jednog dana sve je bilo spremno i oni su pustili plin (virus/otrov/nešto treće?) na tada već opuštene ljude-napadače koji nisu ni znali da se oni negdje skrivaju. Na kraju postoje hrpe bespomoćnih paraliziranih ljudova kojima oni mogu raditi što hoće, rezuckati, udarati, bosti u oči itd.... Oni puni mržnje (kojom je prožeta cijela priča) prilaze jednom, kojem se vidi nijemi krik & suza u oku.... Strong stuff.Da li je možda Galaksija objavljivala kao podlistak kratki SF u '80tima? To je jedino preostalo odakle sam to mogao pročitati.

Jebem mu mater, tačno se sećam priče, ali da se ubijem ne mogu da se setim tačnog izvora. 99% jeste Sirius.

[Roger Sanchez]

Jebem mu mater, tačno se sećam priče, ali da se ubijem ne mogu da se setim tačnog izvora. 99% jeste Sirius.

Bojim se da nije. Pregledao sam sve čijih se naslovnica sjećam. :( Nije ni Alef. Vjerojatno je Galaksija neka iz 'ejtiza, ili nešto treće što je zalutalo kod mene. Jel domaća, ruska, europska ili anglosaksonska priča - neam pojma. Hope is fading.Al dobro, bar me motiviralo pa nađoh ove Sirijuse. Bit će čitanja na godišnjem!

[Dankan Ajdaho]

Da li je moguće da se više niko ne seća? Priča je baš karakteristična.

[Lrd]

jedan od retko dobrih prevoda. ko to bese?a sad si me podsetio i na onu cigletinu sabranih dela harlanovih koje treba nekad otvoriti.

Ne sećam se, nažalost, a nisu mi pri ruci da preturam. Cigletina je odlična.

Da li je moguće da se više niko ne seća? Priča je baš karakteristična.

Meni je poznato, ali možda i umišljam. Edited April 20, 2012 by Lrd

[kim_philby]

Bojim se da nije. Pregledao sam sve čijih se naslovnica sjećam. :( Nije ni Alef. Vjerojatno je Galaksija neka iz 'ejtiza, ili nešto treće što je zalutalo kod mene. Jel domaća, ruska, europska ili anglosaksonska priča - neam pojma. Hope is fading.Al dobro, bar me motiviralo pa nađoh ove Sirijuse. Bit će čitanja na godišnjem!

meni se doima da je neki 50s ili 60s SF koji problematizuje kolonijalizam inherentan dotadasnjim SF narativima a sve to zabibereno slatkom jezom.

[Dankan Ajdaho]

Samo da prijavim da sam isčitao "Mehaničku devojku". Veoma neobična i originalna knjiga, ne baš posebno po mom ukusu ali svakako vredna čitanja. Na početku kao da sam se provlačio kroz živo blato, kasnije je uhvatila ritam. Zanima me pozadina ovog dela.

[kim_philby]

meni je bila odlicna. doduse nisam citao nas prevod i ostavljam mogucnost da to moze stvori odredjeni nivo konfuzije. preporucujem i njegove dve novije knjige ship breaker & the drowned cities svakome ko moze da ih se domogne. navodno su YA knjizevnost ali to se jedino nazire iz cinjenice da su protagonisti (izmedju ostalih) tinejdzeri.

[Pantelija jr]

glede rodjerovog jos uvijek neodgovorenog upita...i meni to zvuci bas poznato, ali se ni ja ne mogu bas sjetiti ko, kad i gdje je to napisao/objavio. moj prvi izbor bi isto bio sirius, a ako nije odatle, onda mozda jedna od onih nekoliko polarisovih antologija sf prica objavljenih... kad? kraj osamdesetih? znam da sam i tu procitao par na slican nacin bolesnih prica.sjecam se i slicne teme (osveta i kontinuirano sadisticko kaznjavanje) u jednoj prici orsona skota karda, u alefu, ako se ne varam. sjeca se neko?

Edited April 29, 2012 by Pantelija jr

[Lrd]

glede rodjerovog jos uvijek neodgovorenog upita...i meni to zvuci bas poznato, ali se ni ja ne mogu bas sjetiti ko, kad i gdje je to napisao/objavio. moj prvi izbor bi isto bio sirius, a ako nije odatle, onda mozda jedna od onih nekoliko polarisovih antologija sf prica objavljenih... kad? kraj osamdesetih? znam da sam i tu procitao par na slican nacin bolesnih prica.sjecam se i slicne teme (osveta i kontinuirano sadisticko kaznjavanje) u jednoj prici orsona skota karda, u alefu, ako se ne varam. sjeca se neko?

A jebi ga, ništa nisi uradio do podgrejao misteriju. Kladio bih se u šta god da Rogerova priča nije Cardova. A i dalje ne mogu da se nateram da odem do špsajza i listam broj po broj.

[Arkadija]

Danas sam na ulici (ugao Knez Mihajlove i 1300 kaplara) za 300 dinara kupila tri primerka Sirijusa br 59,60 i 107 i pošto od sledeće nedelje idem na odmor, unapred se radujem čitanju starih dobrih znanaca :) . Od svih Sirijusa koje sam imala možda mi je ostalo 10-ak, a i oni su sada kod sestre u špajzu.

[Dankan Ajdaho]

sjecam se i slicne teme (osveta i kontinuirano sadisticko kaznjavanje) u jednoj prici orsona skota karda, u alefu, ako se ne varam. sjeca se neko?

Meso za kralja.

KlNGSMEAT by Orson Scott Card The gatekeeper recognized him and the gate fell away. The Shepherd put his ax and his crook into the bag at his belt and stepped out onto the bridge. As always he felt a rush of vertigo as he walked the narrow arch over the foaming acid of the moat. Then he was across and striding down the road to the village. A child was playing with a dog on a grassy hillside. The Shepherd looked up at him, his fine dark face made bright by his eyes. The boy shrank back, and the Shepherd heard a woman's voice cry out, “Back here, Derry, you fool!” The Shepherd walked on down the road as the boy retreated among the hayricks on the far slope. The Shepherd could hear the scolding: “Play near the castle again, and he'll make kingsmeat of you.” Kingsmeat, thought the Shepherd. How the king does get hungry. The word had come down through the quick grapevine—steward to cook to captain to guard to shepherd and then he was dressed and out the door only minutes after the king had muttered, “For supper, what is your taste?” and the queen had fluttered all her arms and said, “Not stew again, I hope,” and the king had murmured as he picked up the computer printouts of the day, “Breast in butter,” and so now the Shepherd was out to harvest from the flock. The village was still in the distance when the Shepherd began to pass the people. He remembered the time, back when the king had first made his tastes known, when there had been many attempts to evade the villagers' duties to the king. Now they only watched, perhaps hiding the unblemished members of the flock, sometimes thrusting them forward to end the suspense; but mostly the Shepherd saw the old legless, eyeless, or armless men and women who hobbled about their duties with those limbs that were still intact. Those with fingers thatched or wove; those with eyes led those whose hands were their only contact with the world; those with arms rode the backs of those with legs; and all of them took their only solace in sad and sagging beds, producing, after a suitable interval, children whose miraculous wholeness made them gods to a surprised and wondering mother, made them hated reminders to a father whose tongue had fallen from his mouth, or whose toes had somehow been mislaid, or whose buttocks were a scar, his legs a useless reminder of hams long since dropped off. “Ah, such beauty,” a woman murmured, pumping the bellows at the bread-oven fire. There was a sour grunt from the legless hag who shoveled in the loaves and turned them with a wooden shovel. It was true, of course, for the Shepherd was never touched, no indeed. (No indeed, came the echo from the midnight fires of Unholy Night, when dark tales frightened children half out of their wits, dark tales that the shrunken grownups knew were true, were inevitable, were tomorrow.) The Shepherd had long dark hair, and his mouth was firm but kind, and his eyes flashed sunlight even in the dark, it seemed, while his hands were soft from bathing, large and strong and dark and smooth and fearful. And the Shepherd walked into the village to a house he had noted the last time he came. He went to the door and immediately heard a sigh from every other house, and silence from the one that he had picked. He raised his hand before the door and it opened, as it had been built to do: for all things that opened served the Shepherd's will, or at least served the bright metal ball the king had implanted in his hand. Inside the house it was dark, but not too dark to see the white eyes of an old man who lay in a hammock, legs dangling bonelessly. The man could see his future in the Shepherd's eyes—or so he thought, at least, until the Shepherd walked past him into the kitchen. There a young woman, no older than fifteen, stood in front of a cupboard, her hands clenched to do violence. But the Shepherd only shook his head and raised his hand, and the cupboard answered him and opened however much she pushed against it, revealing a murmuring baby wrapped in sound-smothering blankets. The Shepherd only smiled and shook his head. His smile was kind and beautiful, and the woman wanted to die. He stroked her cheek and she sighed softly, moaned softly, and then he reached into his bag and pulled out his shepherd's crook and leaned the little disc against her temple and she smiled. Her eyes were dead but her lips were alive and her teeth showed. He laid her on the floor, carefully opened her blouse, and then took his ax from his bag. He ran his finger around the long, narrow cylinder and a tiny light shone at one end. Then he touched the ax's glowing tip to the underside of her breast and drew a wide circle. Behind the ax a tiny red line followed, and the Shepherd took hold of the breast and it came away in his hand. Laying it aside, he stroked the ax lengthwise and the light changed to a dull blue. He passed the ax over the red wound, and the blood gelled and dried and the wound began to heal. He placed the breast into his bag and repeated the process on the other side. Through it the woman watched in disinterested amusement, the smile still playing at her lips. She would smile like that for days before the peace wore off. When the second breast was in his bag, the Shepherd put away the ax and the crook and carefully buttoned the woman's blouse. He helped her to her feet, and again passed his deft and gentle hand across her cheek. Like a baby rooting she turned her lips toward his fingers, but he withdrew his hand. As he left, the woman took the baby from the cupboard and embraced it, cooing softly. The baby nuzzled against the strangely harsh bosom and the woman smiled and The Shepherd walked through the streets, the bag at his belt jostling with his steps. The people watched the bag, wondering what it held. But before the Shepherd was out of the village the word had spread, and the looks were no longer at the bag but rather at the Shepherd's face. He looked neither to the left nor to the right, but he felt their gazes and his eyes grew soft and sad. And then he was back at the moat, across the narrow bridge, through the gate, and into the high dark corridors of the castle. He took the bag to the cook, who looked at him sourly. The Shepherd only smiled at him and took his crook from the bag. In a moment the cook was docile, and calmly he began to cut the red flesh into thin slices, which he lightly floured and then placed in a pan of simmering butter. The smell was strong and sweet, and the flecks of milk sizzled in the pan. The Shepherd stayed in the kitchen, watching, as the cook prepared the king's meal. Then he followed to the door of the dining hall as the steward entered the king's presence with the steaming slices on a tray. The king and queen ate silently, with severe but gracious rituals of shared servings and gifts of finest morsels. And at the end of the meal the king murmured a word to the steward, who beckoned both the cook and the Shepherd into the hall. The cook, the steward, and the Shepherd knelt before the king, who reached out three arms to touch their heads. Through long practice they accepted his touch without recoiling, without even blinking, for they knew such things displeased him. After all, it was a great gift that they could serve the king: their services kept them from giving kingsmeat from their own flesh, or from decorating with their skin the tapestried walls of the castle or the long train of a hunting-cape. The king's armpits still touched the heads of the three servants when a shudder ran through the castle and a low warning tone began to drone. The king and queen left the table and with deliberate dignity moved to the consoles and sat. There they pressed buttons, setting in motion all the unseeable defenses of the castle. After an hour of exhausting concentration they recognized defeat and pulled their arms back from the now-useless tasks they had been doing. The fields of force that had long held the thin walls of the castle to their delicate height now lapsed, the walls fell, and a shining metal ship settled silently in the middle of the ruins. The side of the skyship opened and out of it came four men, weapons in their hands and anger in their eyes. Seeing them, the king and queen looked sadly at each other and then pulled the ritual knives from their resting place behind their heads and simultaneously plunged them between one another's eyes. They died instantly, and the twenty-two-year conquest of Abbey Colony was at an end. Dead, the king and queen looked like sad squids lying flat and empty on a fisherman's deck, not at all like conquerors of planets and eaters of men. The men from the skyship walked to the corpses and made certain they were dead. Then they looked around and realized for the first time that they were not alone. For the Shepherd, the steward, and the cook stood in the ruins of the palace, their eyes wide with unbelief. One of the men from the ship reached out a hand. “How can you be alive?” he asked. They did not answer, not knowing really what the question meant. “How have you survived here, when—” And then there were no words, for they looked beyond the palace, across the moat to the crowd of colonists and sons of colonists who stood watching them. And seeing them there without arms and legs and eyes and breasts and lips, the men from the ship emptied their hands of weapons and filled their palms with tears and then crossed the bridge to grieve among the delivered ones' rejoicing. There was no time for explanations, nor was there a need. The colonists crept and hobbled and, occasionally, walked across the bridge to the ruined palace and formed a circle around the bodies of the king and queen. Then they set to work, and within an hour the corpses were lying in the pit that had been the foundation of the castle, covered with urine and feces and stinking already of decay. Then the colonists turned to the servants of the king and queen. The men from the ship had been chosen on a distant world for their judgment, speed, and skill, and before the mob had found its common mind, before they had begun to move, there was a forcefence around the steward, the cook, and the gatekeeper, and the guards. Even around the Shepherd, and though the crowd mumbled its resentment, one of the men from the ship patiently explained in soothing tones that whatever crimes were done would be punished in due time, according to Imperial justice. The fence stayed up for a week as the men from the ship worked to put the colony in order, struggling to interest the people in the fields that once again belonged completely to them. At last they gave up, realizing that justice could not wait. They took the machinery of the court out of the ship, gathered the people together, and began the trial. The colonists waited as the men from the ship taped a metal plate behind each person's right ear. Even the servants in their prison and the men from the ship were fitted with them, and then the trial began, each person testifying directly from his memory into the minds of every other person. The court first heard the testimony of the men from the ship. The people closed their eyes and saw men in a huge starship, pushing buttons and speaking rapidly into computers. Finally expressions of relief, and four men entering a skyship to go down. The people saw that it was not their world, for here there were no survivors. Instead there was just a castle, just a king and queen, and when they were dead, just fallow fields and the ruins of a village abandoned many years before. They saw the same scene again and again. Only Abbey Colony had any human beings left alive. Then they watched as bodies of kings and queens on other worlds were cut open. A chamber within the queen split wide, and there in a writhing mass of life lived a thousand tiny fetuses, many-armed and bleeding in the cold air outside the womb. Thirty years of gestation, and then two by two they would have continued to conquer and rape other worlds in an unstoppable epidemic across the galaxy. But in the womb, it was stopped, and the fetuses were sprayed with a chemical and soon they lay still and dried into shriveled balls of gray skin. The testimony of the men from the ship ended, and the court probed the memories of the colonists: A screaming from the sky, and a blast of light, and then the king and queen descending without machinery. But the devices follow quickly, and the people are beaten by invisible whips and forced into a pen that they watched grow from nothing into a dark, tiny room that they barely fit into, standing. Heavy air, impossible to breathe. A woman fainting, then a man, and the screams and cries deafening. Sweat until bodies are dry, heat until bodies are cold, and then a trembling through the room. A door, and then the king, huger than any had thought, his many arms revolting. Vomit on your back from the man behind, then your own vomit, and your bladder empties in fear. The arms reach, and screams are all around, screams in all throats, screams until all voices are silenced. Then one man plucked writhing from the crowd, the door closed again, darkness back, and the stench and heat and terror greater than before. Silence. And in the distance a drawn-out cry of agony. Silence. Hours. And then the open door again, the king again, the scream again. The third time the king is in the door and out of the crowd walks one who is not screaming, whose shirt is caked with stale vomit but who is not vomiting, whose eyes are calm and whose lips are at peace and whose eyes shine. The Shepherd, though known then by another name. He walks to the king and reaches out his hand, and he is not seized. He is led, and he walks out, and the door closes. Silence. Hours. And still no scream. And then the pen is gone, into the nothing it seemed to come from, and the air is clear and the sun is shining and the grass is green. There is only one change: the castle, rising high and delicately and madly in an upward tumble of spires and domes. A moat of acid around it. A slender bridge. And then back to the village, all of them. The houses are intact, and it is almost possible to forget. Until the Shepherd walks through the village streets. He is still called by the old name—what was the name? And the people speak to him, ask him, what is in the castle, what do the king and queen want, why were we imprisoned, why are we free. But the Shepherd only points to a baker. The man steps out, the Shepherd touches him on the temple with his crook, and the man smiles and walks toward the castle. Four strong men likewise sent on their way, and a boy, and another man, and then the people begin to murmur and shrink back from the Shepherd. His face is still beautiful, but they remember the scream they heard in the pen. They do not want to go to the castle. They do not trust the empty smiles of those who go. And then the Shepherd comes again, and again, and limbs are lost from living men and women. There are plans. There are attacks. But always the Shepherd's crook or the Shepherd's unseen whip stops them. Always they return crippled to their houses. And they wait. And they hate. And there are many who wish they had died in the first terrified moments of the attack. But never once does the Shepherd kill. The testimony of the people ended, and the court let them pause before the trial went on. They needed time to dry their eyes of the tears their memories shed. They needed time to clear their throats of the thickness of silent cries. And then they closed their eyes again and watched the testimony of the Shepherd. This time there were not many different views; they all watched through one pair of eyes: The pen again, crowds huddled in terror. The door opens, as before. Only this time all of them walk toward the king in the door, and all of them hold out a hand, and all of them feel a cold tentacle wrap around and lead them from the pen. The castle grows closer, and they feel the fear of it. But also there is a quietness, a peace that is pressed down on the terror, a peace that holds the face calm and the heart to its normal beat. The castle. A narrow bridge, and acid in a moat. A gate opens. The bridge is crossed with a moment of vertigo when the king seems about to push, about to throw his prey into the moat. And then the vast dining hall, and the queen at the console, shaping the world according to the pattern that will bring her children to life. You stand alone at the head of the table, and the king and queen sit on high stools and watch you. You look at the table and see enough to realize why the others screamed. You feel a scream rise in your throat, knowing that you, and then all the others, will be torn like that, will be half-devoured, will be left in a pile of gristle and bone until all are gone. And then you press down the fear, and you watch. The king and queen raise and lower their arms, undulating them in syncopated patterns. They seem to be conversing. Is there meaning in the movements? You will find out. You also extend an arm, and try to imitate the patterns that you see. They stop moving and watch you. You pause for a moment, unsure. Then you undulate your arms again. They move in a flurry of arms and soft sounds. You also imitate the soft sounds. And then they come for you. You steel yourself, vow that you will not scream, knowing that you will not be able to stop yourself. A cold arm touches you and you grow faint. And then you are led from the room, away from the table, and it grows dark. They keep you for weeks. Amusement. You are kept alive to entertain them when they grow weary of their work. But as you imitate them you begin to learn, and they begin to teach you, and soon a sort of stammering language emerges, they speaking slowly with their loose arms and soft voices, you with only two arms trying to imitate, then initiate words. The strain of it is killing, but at last you tell them what you want to tell them, what you must tell them before they become bored and look at you again as meat. You teach them how to keep a herd. And so they make you a shepherd, with only one duty: to give them meat in a never-ending supply. You have told them you can feed them and never run out of manflesh, and they are intrigued. They go to their surgical supplies and give you a crook so there will be no pain or struggle, and an ax for the butchery and healing, and on a piece of decaying flesh they show you how to use them. In your hand they implant the key that commands every hinge in the village. And then you go into the colony and proceed to murder your fellowmen bit by bit in order to keep them all alive. You do not speak. You hide from their hatred in silence. You long for death, but it does not come, because it cannot come. If you died, the colony would die, and so to save their lives you continue a life not worth living. And then the castle falls and you are finished and you hide the ax and crook in a certain place in the earth and wait for them all to kill you. The trial ended. The people pulled the plates from behind their ears, and blinked unbelieving at the afternoon sunlight. They looked at the beautiful face of the Shepherd and their faces wore unreadable expressions. “The verdict of the court,” a man from the ship read as the others moved through the crowd collecting witness plates, “is that the man called Shepherd is guilty of gross atrocities. However, these atrocities were the sole means of keeping alive those very persons against whom the atrocities were perpetrated. Therefore, the man called Shepherd is cleared of all charges. He is not to be put to death, and instead shall be honored by the people of Abbey Colony at least once a year and helped to live as long as science and prudence can keep a man alive.” It was the verdict of the court, and despite their twenty-two years of isolation the people of Abbey Colony would never disobey Imperial law. Weeks later the work of the men from the ship was finished. They returned to the sky. The people governed themselves as they had before. Somewhere between stars three of the men in the ship gathered after supper. “A shepherd, of all things,” said one. “A bloody good one, though,” said another. The fourth man seemed to be asleep. He was not, however, and suddenly he sat up and cried out, “My God, what have we done!” Over the years Abbey Colony thrived, and a new generation grew up strong and uncrippled. They told their children's children the story of their long enslavement, and freedom was treasured; freedom and strength and wholeness and life. And every year, as the court had commanded, they went to a certain house in the village carrying gifts of grain and milk and meat. They lined up outside the door, and one by one entered to do honor to the Shepherd. They walked by the table where he was propped so he could see them. Each came in and looked into the beautiful face with the gentle lips and the soft eyes. There were no large strong hands now, however. Only a head and a neck and a spine and ribs and a loose sac of flesh that pulsed with life. The people looked over his naked body and saw the scars. Here had been a leg and a hip, right? Yes, and here he had once had genitals, and here shoulders and arms. How does he live? asked the little ones, wondering. We keep him alive, the older ones answered. The verdict of the court, they said year after year. We'll keep him as long as science and prudence can keep a man alive. Then they set down their gifts and left, and at the end of the day the Shepherd was moved back to his hammock, where year after year he looked out the window at the weathers of the sky. They would, perhaps, have cut out his tongue, but since he never spoke, they didn't think of it. They would, perhaps, have cut out his eyes, but they wanted him to see them smile.

Edited May 9, 2012 by Dankan Ajdaho