In fact, the next day 131 of the villagers, nearly half of the village, equipped themselves with cameras and flashlights and king-detectors of all sorts and rushed off to the woods, Continue reading
The following is a modified version of a fictional conversation between a leprechaunist and a non-believer taken from the Non Prophets site.
I believe that the box has a leprechaun in it.
I don’t believe that. Why do you?
I heard him talking.
I don’t believe that either. In fact, I know of no evidence that leprechauns exist.
Well, either there is a leprechaun in the box or there isn’t, right?
So it’s 50-50. And since I heard him talk, I’m sure that it contains a leprechaun.
Either the box contain a leprechaun or it does not, but that does not mean the odds are 50-50.
“Who are you kidding? You’re no lamb” the wolf snarled through teeth oozing drool while facing the hound through the fog.
“That does not make me a wolf” the hound retorted and held his ground as the herd shifted nervously behind him.
“What business do you have defending creatures not even of your own species?” the wolf growled.
“What business do you have preying on the innocent simply for the sake of sport?” the hound replied. “It’s not as if you haven’t eaten recently.”
“I provide a service” the wolf said while staring aloft in an attempt to add dignity to his words. “I provide sheep with the scars that liberate them from their pathetic innocence.”
The hound eyes blazed. “And those that limp around life never recovered from their wounds? I also provide a service; to inform those I feel compassion for that you are a dishonest beast only interested in their consumption.”
“Where is your loyalty?” the wolf snarled. “Carnivores ought to share the available prey, and not snitch out those who might be wolves.”
“Were I to consume your pups, would you hold to your rule?” the hound inquired. “You’re merely conjuring up arbitrary rules in an attempt to advance your own ignoble agenda. Having fangs does not make us the same as yours are predatory, and mine are reserved for tearing apart your flanks should you ever pursue any lamb I have chosen to protect.”
Snarling one last innocuous time, the wolf slunk back into the fog.
Moral: Don’t even think about taking advantage of my friends and family.
Motivation: Recent exchanges with wolves I tolerate, but do not respect.
We’re never going to fly. At least that’s what the scientific turkeys pecking about in the next coop would have us believe. To me, it’s demeaning. As if we are no better than chickens. These gobbling scientists go on and on about things they could not possibly know. Things like mortality. They suggest there’s no evidence for immorality, when common sense tells us all that we each possess an avian soul that will someday molt these flightless bodies, and become eagles, soaring into the eternal sky. Why would we possess wings if this were not true? The High Gobbler has clearly delivered to us the faithful oral tradition how this, our destiny, is assuredly awaiting those of us who have sufficient faith.
The scientists, in contrast, gobble that there is no evidence that we are all, by nature, eagles, and suggest that we are genetically more similar to chickens! They’ve also ruffled more than just a few feathers this autumn by denying the existence of the Triune Eagle-Gobbler-Spirit after whose likeness we were all created. They claim to have solid evidence backing their claims. May they die of avian flu.
Joseph and Albert were both very intelligent 9-year-olds. They both had pumpkin gardens. They both planned to win 1st prize for “Largest Pumpkin” at the county fair now only 3 days away.
Joseph spoke confidently as suggested by this font.
Albert spoke more pensively as suggested by this font.
The boys spoke as they walked home from school.
Bob scowled, then turned to size up the rookie. Jim looked innocent enough in his well-groomed hair and polished shoes that mirrored the commissioner’s office, but innocence is a quality not always amenable to homicide work.
“I don’t think we actually need to take on an additional homicide detective” Bob finally said, still looking at his annoyed reflection in Jim’s shoes.
“Just do it as a favor to me” insisted the commissioner. “Jim’s grandfather Joshua was very instrumental in the founding of Gnostipolis, and Jim’s father is in good standing with the community.”
Bob scratched his mustache. “It sounds to me like someone has job-security anxiety, plus I don’t owe any favors to anyone.”
NOTE: This story is not for those with weak compositions.
Kameela was a Muslim woman accused of adultery, an accusation she didn’t deny. And so, in accordance to the the laws of her faith, she was sentenced to be stoned. However, it was a fair stoning. The law graciously provides a way out. After being blind-folded and buried up to your chest with your arms bound to your side, a large circle is drawn around you. If, after the stones begin to fall, you can extract yourself from the ground and make your way to the outside of the circle, you are then free to go back to court and try to establish your innocence.
And so the stoning began. As she felt her cheek bone shatter, Kameela cried to Allah to give her strength, and with a mighty effort, unleashed the full force of her slight frame against the soil. It moved slightly. But then another stone, and another, thrown by the more devout of the crowd, cracked against her skull. As consciousness faded, she made one final effort. When the stoning stopped, it was noted Kameela had nearly managed to unearth an arm. But the will of Allah had been done.
. . .
Kameela awakens at the feet of God. But there’s something not quite right. God does not look very welcoming. He is frowning at the contents of a folder in his hand. “Allah” she says timidly. “I accept your will.”