GIVEN SPOTTY CONDITIONS, THIS MESSAGE WAS DELETED Written by Gerry Read & Joel Green
The birds were in a feeding fren- zy, gathering all they could find as black clouds settled over the metaverse. Instinct drove the creatures to tweet, encouraging freedom and endless possibilities in two- hundred-eighty characters or less. Their tweets traveled across the land and were heard everywhere from the Crypto District to Ethereum Avenue. The black clouds had evolved into a storm and a biblical
nook and cranny of the metaverse and be- yond, they were spectators, enjoying the acquisition unfold in real time. The pair had recently agreed to terms for a joint venture, with the intention of intimidating Musk. Space Z&B was to build its mission control center on a plot of digital terrain opposite Twitter HQ, launching virtual rockets and satellites. Behind the bravado,
metaverse, Bezos received a notification. “Maybe Musk has tagged us in a tweet” he enthusiastically announced to Zuck- erberg, fumbling the phone out from his pocket. Disappointingly, it wasn’t Musk, but a self-deleting encrypted message, from Buckingham Palace requesting three teenage boys. Bezos was bamboozled and prompted his assistant to arrange a Zoom call. Unable to show him the message he
crash shattered the harmoni- ous bird song, giving way to Musk squawking, “DEATH TO LARRY T BIRD, FUCK THE BLUE TICK, FREE FENTANYL FOR ALL.” As desks were cleared and memes became the new norm of formal communica- tion, Parag Agrawal signed his consent form as Musk said, “bite the pillow, I’m go- ing in dry.” Whilst the acqui- sition was being consummat- ed the five remaining Twitter employees donned their Oculus headsets and contin- ued their testing of ‘Barmit-
could only tell Zuckerberg its content, who said nothing and gave a wry grin. The pair made their way to the boardroom and took their seats, clicking the link into the Buckingham Palace waiting room. The royal cypher appeared on the screen and faded, giving way to a grand room with red carpets, teal walls and a crystal chandelier with a value that ex- ceeded the GDP of several de- veloping countries. Suddenly a hologram of Queen Elizabeth II became visible. “Surprised to see me, boys? I take it my request is in hand?” A further bamboo-
WHITE SPIRE GROVE FROM THE CROCHET CORAL REEF PROJECT BY MARGARET AND CHRISTINE WERTHEIM, FEATURING CORALS BY EVELYN HARDIN. PHOTO BY FRANCINE MCDOUGALL, INSTITUTE FOR FIGURING.
zYe.’ The game had been in development since Kanye’s outlandish tweets in Octo- ber. Based on the arcade classic Pac-Man, players get to move a giant Rabbi through the streets of Chicago swallowing baby Kanyes to the soundtrack of Graduation , which had been reinterpreted by the Sili- con Valley Klezmer Collective. In what at first glance, looked like a snooker referee polishing the white ball, Zuckerberg gave Bezos a head massage. Having eyes, ears, and fingers in every
Zuckerberg and Bezos were hoping the venture would start some back-and-forth banter-fueled tweets with Musk. The pair both looked up to him, he was the cool big brother who was always one step ahead of the trend. Musk viewed the pair as two ugly little worms who stunk of B.O., and at parties he would often tell the story of catching Zuckerberg in his bedroom stealing Cali Weed and sniffing Grimes’s underwear. As the storm continued to pound the
zled Bezos responded, “We were hoping for some clarification as to why you need three teenage boys?” “William and Harry have decided to settle their differences on the badminton court in a game of doubles and they need partners.” A slightly less bamboozled Bezos then, reasonably, asked, “But you’ve or- dered three boys?” Her Majesty smiled, “Andrew is here too, dear.”
Excerpt from Elixir (Greywolf Press) Written by Kapka Kassabova
Most of Dogwood’s young people were away picking fruit and later in autumn, ‘pulling asparagus’ in Western Europe. A few hung around, idle, resting from their months of farm work abroad. Battered vans and horse-driven carts lumbered uphill at the pace of centuries. And the faces of the Roma looked centuries old – mahogany brown and stamped with a hardship that wouldn’t go away. These families from the ’hood headed to the highlands of upper Kanina where they gathered plants. Some came back at the end of the day to sell them to a plant dealer called Rocky the Enchanter, others sold them to a dealer from Thunder. ‘We all used to do it,’ Danera said. ‘The villages emptied, only the old folk were left. We’d jump on trucks and buffalo carts with our parents and head up to Beslet for the summer.’ Beslet was a highland area near a Thracian sanctuary. The young guys and girls sitting with coffees nodded in remembrance. ‘And we’d still do it, if the money was half-decent,’ said a young builder. ‘Cos mushrooms and berries are like an itch. Once you do it, you’ve gotta do it.’ ‘Not anymore,’ said another one. ‘The system killed my itch.’ But some still went picking blueberries. This year they went all the way across to Pirin because the blueberry bushes in the Rhodope were hit by unseasonal hail storms. Professional foragers used a special metal-and-wood comb which they ran through the plant for large scoops of berries. I bought myself such a tool from the Dogwood general store, but never used it and gave it away. Outside the taverna, a young woman in folkloric national dress sold local goods – herbal teas, jams, honeys. She was from Dogwood, but deliberately didn’t wear the Pomak shalvars and floral headscarf of her mother and grandmother. Looking at her in these borrowed clothes worn for the benefit of tourists who might be displeased by the sight of Muslim shalvars, I sensed layers of backstory. ‘So many layers,’ the poet said over the low stone wall separating the two gardens, while puffing on his pipe under the cherry tree, ‘that it takes decades before you give up trying to reach the bottom.’ He had spent decades roaming the hills, collecting stories, record- ing songs, collating memories and dialects. Under his garden was a library. He went down a hatch and handed me rare books. I asked if I could use his dandelion poem.
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