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The Marching Morlocks, Part 3

Even a dog gets his revenge.
--Plutarch, Moralia.

The executive meeting room was impressive, in a dark teak, leather chair, robber-baron sort-of-way. It was a room meant to impress venture capitalists and private equity investors and it had worked splendidly for almost two years.

Now, the air of confidence had evaporated from the luxurious surroundings and the room stank of broken promises, lies and desperation.

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The Marching Morlocks, Part 2

"Everybody knows that the boat is leaking.
Everybody knows that the captain lied."

--Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"

After the 4pm carnage, there were a few tears, a few handshakes and a lot of cursing under one's breath as there weren't nearly enough cardboard boxes for personal effects.

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The Marching Morlocks, Part 1

“There is no kind of idleness by which we are so easily seduced as that which dignifies itself by the appearance of business.”

--Boswell's The Life of Johnson

It had been three weeks since anyone had gotten a paycheck. Six weeks ago, the company had been delisted from the stock exchange for under a dollar for a month. Now, there was talk from marketing that the company credit cards were being rejected at restaurants and travel agencies.

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"The Woodcutter's Son"

ONCE upon a time, there lived a poor woodcutter, a widower with two sons. His sons were twins and were as alike as two robin's eggs in a nest. The way the woodcutter knew who was whom was that one boy had a string tied around his left wrist and the other boy had a string tied around his right wrist.

One day, in winter, when the ground was hard and painful to walk upon, the woodcutter went into the forest to cut down a tree crowned with mistletoe to sell to a witch in the village.

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Lewis Shiner's Online Offering

Lewis Shiner, one of the original cyberpunk authors, has recently posted his fiction under a Creative Commons license.

In his manifesto, he writes about the death of short fiction magazines and the attendant loss of revenue. Like us, he wonders about the union of short fiction and the 'net.

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"The Devil Goes Down"


SIMON: A nerdy-looking schmuck.
THE VOICE: Authoritative, slick, off-stage voice.
THE DEVIL: Preferably a girl, like Satan in Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ.

SCENE. LIGHTS UP on Simon seated at a table with a computer. He's trying to finish a sitcom script by deadline and is obviously frustrated.

SIMON: (Looks at clock) Damn! (Looks at watch on left arm) Damn! (Looks at watch on right arm) Damn!

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"Harold Ashby Sells Smells"


HAROLD. A seller of smells.
CHRIS. A prospective customer.

SCENE. LIGHTS DOWN as things get arranged. HAROLD is sitting at a card table with inflated ziploc baggies. LIGHTS UP. CHRIS approaches.

CHRIS: (sniffs) I smell a smelly smell that smells smelly.

HAROLD: Bah! You smell the smelly smell of your upper lip, perhaps. Or perhaps you smell the smelly smell of the last arse you puckered up to. But my smells --

(HAROLD indicates the inflated ziploc baggies.)

HAROLD: My smells, they are sublime.

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"I, Professor"


ROY HINKLEY. A smart, lean, lively fellow in white button down shirt, khaki pants.

SCENE. ROY HINKLEY is center stage, back turned to audience. He is hunched over a small table. On the table is an old radio and coconuts. We hear a hornpipe or whistle play a FEW NOTES OF A SEA SHANTY OR JIG. LIGHTS UP.

ROY: (aware he's not alone, turns around) Oh, hello! I wasn't expecting you until next week. I hope the trip wasn't too arduous. (Beat.) No? Excellent!

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