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The Two Headed HydraThe serpentine Hydra of Grecian myth is well known for its deadly characteristics had many heads filled with fangs and hungry for human flesh, no sword or axe blade no matter how sharp could provide a fatal decapitation, for as we all know the neck stumps would merely sprout more heads to replace the one lost.
Today the whole world is menaced by a different sort of Hydra; the good news is that this one has only two heads, the bad news is no one has gotten close to chopping off either head to see if this one shares its ancestor's skill at regeneration. Each head despite being joined at the neck has its own separate name like a conjoined twin. Those names are State and Capital, State and Capital like most brothers are keen to compete to prove who's the stronger of the two and prone to arguments even on occasion violent disagreement. Perhaps because there is only two heads, both control not just the head and neck but split their shared body down the middle. State with sharper fangs and cl
Grim TidesGrim Tides
The night was calm and had been uneventful. The breeze barely stirred the tarpaulin covering the tools on the ship's deck. The moon was not quite full but still bright enough to turn the sea's surface into a mirror when the thick cloud cover gave up trying to blot out earth's largest satellite. Currently the clouds seemed to have tired of the game they played and started thinning out allowing the moon to bathe the ships bobbing on the surface in its cold and sterile light.
Nick the junior pilot of the Mighty Mariner kept pivoting so his gaze would move left to right, or Port to Starboard as his instructors and training manual kept insisting, some habits just seem to refuse to die altogether. The ship was an old one, launched from the Sunderland shipyards in 73 the Makams had built her to last, still on the outside she looked rusty and weather beaten. Her interior especially the ships "bridge" was the definition of idiosyncratic. Keeping as much of the original furnishings
Portrait of a TyrantPortrait of a Tyrant
The door opened and a pair of legs stomped into the room. Both feet were encased in boots made from leather, frequent polishing turned those feet into dark mirrors reflecting the faces that had reverently focussed upon the toecaps as protocol forbade looking directly into the boots owner commanded otherwise. "Leave us", said the owner instead. There was much scraping of chairs and shuffling of paper as a half dozen minor functionaries, two guards a Stenographer and three secretaries all male, and all wearing tan shirts more reminiscent of military uniforms, and all had a matching black armband warn above the elbow on the right arm.
After the familiar click of the door closing was heard the room's sole remaining occupant (the "us" had been an affectation by the speaker mimicking the royal "We" of the nobility) marched to the desk just a little in front of the far wall. The desk was easily the large, half again as large as the combination of the Stenographer and s
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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