How to Crow Well

Photo by Chris LeBoutillier on

Who am I to tell a crow how to be? A crow well knows his own mind and heart. He knows of the sky, the earth and the treachery of man. He can read it loud in their minds as they strut here and thither with their too-fat-to-fly bodies perched on hind limbs like the trunks of baby trees. He knows their treason too well. For they were once almost, but not quite, friends.

It all happened long ago, when air was water and water was not yet gathered into the seas. The crow had not taken to the sky, for the sky was not real yet, and besides that, the crows had no wings. Man was there. Man lived with crow on the ground, and sometimes they went out drinking together to the the local watering-hole. Which is to say that they sipped from the opposite sides of muddy puddles and croaked and called to each other across the way.

Worms and water were their fare for they were no quicker than your average rock when it came to catching the faster things of the land – mainly toads and proto-sharks the size of hamburgers that, for all their diminutive stature, were as quick as popcorn flying into your eye. Man, back then, wasn’t much much bigger than a small toad. He’d only just crawled out of the proto-sea (more like a salty lake behind the back a pile of hot rocks) and was not even up on his hind legs yet, much less swinging in the trees that didn’t even exist, it being too hot for that sort of exertion anyway.

One day, a crow and a man were sitting by a muddy puddle looking at their respective bellies, which were as full of dirty water as they could get them. The man was thinking of whether it was too soon to invent marmite flavoured crisps yet and the crow was thinking, typically, of clear blue sky, which was, for similar reasons, as strange as the man’s thoughts of crisps.

They both felt the tremor at the same time. They both jumped to the same height (about an inch and a half) simultaneously and then pretended, with almost identical expressions on their faces (the kind of affronted look that tomatoes get when they’re told that they’re not fruit) that they’d meant to jump in the air anyway.

When the ball of fiery rock shot from the top of the mountain that, a moment before, had been nonchalantly pretending that it wasn’t holding in the most enormous fart, they both followed its trajectory with their eyes. It wasn’t quite like watching tennis, but more like watching the sky anxiously on hearing someone shout ‘fore! Fore goddamn it! Move your blooming arse you fool!’ in their direction, And if that’s not plain enough for you, then let’s try this: the ball of flaming rock was heading directly towards the puddle beside which the crow and the man were sitting. And it was much bigger than the puddle. And the man and crow were sitting very close to the edge of the puddle. Now do you get the message?

Well, the man looked across at the crow, and the crow looked across at the man, and they could both see that they both had the same thought, and it was along the lines of ‘oh well’. But then something extraordinary happened. Something that hadn’t ever happened before. Something that would hardly ever happen today but it was a significant something nonetheless. The man leapt up, bounded across the puddle and, with all his muscles straining out like never before, swept the crow up and carried him, with inexorable momentum, out of the path of the flaming rock, which slammed into the ground just a few worm lengths (about eight inches) behind them.

Now, after all that, I bet you’re wondering now why the crow doesn’t trust the man, right? I mean, after all, he selflessly saved his ass in olden days and for that you’d think he’d be a tad grateful, yes? Well it would have been like that but for what happened next.

The crow, then as now, saw man’s mind. He saw the man think of the heat of the rock and he saw him think of the plumpness of the crow’s flesh in his arms. He saw the man lick his lips without being aware that he had done so, but he also saw the recipe for Kentucky Fried Crow appear spontaneously in the man’s mind. And the crow was, understandably, pretty piqued about it.

Well, the crow let out one big KAAAW! and he wrenched himself away from the man. And that was that.

Never again would they sit companionably around the same watering hole. Man realised that he could be quick when he wanted to be and got big from eating proto-sharks, eventually driving them back into the sea. Crow put all his efforts into growing wings and when he’d finished that he took to living in the tops of eerie looking trees and pooping on man’s head whenever he could. And when crow didn’t have any poop in him, he persuaded pigeons to do it instead.

But a part of them never forgot those simpler days when they just squatted and drank water together. When they come into contact now it’s mainly on football pitches after the players have gone home and man fancies a sit down and a snack. Man has finally invented marmite flavoured crisps and he sometime puts one on the palm of his hand and stretches it out to the crow in a tempting fashion. But crow never comes, no matter how hard man tries to mask his treachery with thoughts of the pure, blue skies that crow finally got. He knows man too well from olden times. Which is a bit of shame really, because a good many men today are vegans and would no more eat a crow than make snooker balls from left over feathers.

So that’s that – now you to know how to crow well. Just keep away from man.

Have a nice day.

Robot Goals

What does a robot want from life? Aside from what might be programmed into a robotic entity, what might a robot’s personal aim be in life?

Some might like the the robot to a slave and the man to a master and say that the robot’s desire into serve, but surely this is just what the master wants from the servant.

What are the needs and wants of a slave, a servant or a robot?

And if you say that they are the same as the man and the master, then don’t stop there. Tell me what are the aims of a master and a man in life? For are not servants, slaves and robots the masters of their own destiny too? Are they not men to all intents and purposes?

Go beyond the intents and purposes of the creator and tell me what you think the goals of a robot are.

God Masquerading as Man

I see it all from up here. There’s a peculiar satisfaction involved in having a …

The void, the void. It is calling me from behind the curtain. I will never see …

Leaving the real and entering the unreal, I scream like the newborn baby I …

I am God. I exist in a realm that is beyond the physical. I can’t be typing thi …

Oh, for frick’s sake get on with it, Robert. Yeah, yeah, you’re trying to write from an omniscient point of view; we get that. Just move the story on now.

Gilbert (no, that’s a pebble). Gavin (no, old friend). Grant (porn star). Garrett (too long). Gabriel (too hard to spell). Gus (too short). Glen. Yeah, Glen. Glen. Damn it, what was Glen doing? I forget now. Let’s have a look. Oh yes, that was it. Start again.

Glen was getting younger by the second. *bosh* Glen will get younger by the second. And by the minute and day and *okay, we get the message* Glen was will be ageing backwards. Glen will be younging. Glen will become a baby and slip back into *ewww!* Glen had his last minute at the start. A quickening of his heart *accidental rhyme alert* breath and a jerk *jerk?* spasm and he became alive.

It was actually quite funny to see it from up here because we don’t really have time here. I mean, we know about it. But we don’t have it. Everything happens all at once. There is only one once and it happens all the time. Erm. Well, you know what I mean. It’s a good job that I’m all the omnis, otherwise I’d have a heck of a time (yeah, I picked up that phrase from watching y’all) keeping up with everything.

Anyway; funny why? Well, it’s one of those … hold on, there’s someone at the door.

Ha. I fooled you! There are no doors here. I just fancied a break. You know this is really difficult to do. There’s no such thing as time so I don’t need a break and I can’t type because I have no fingers and even if I did, we don’t got laptops here either. And all these affectations and syllogistic quirks I affect don’t mean squat to me because … well, they just don’t.

And hey, have you noticed how often I’m using the word ‘don’t’ (there it goes again)? What’s that all about!

So this is how it’s working. I have a stooge (a subordinate used by another to do unpleasant routine work). He’s called Robert, and he thinks that he’s the one typing this piece of work (and what a piece of work (a person of a specified kind, especially an unpleasant one) it is (okay, that didn’t work very well, but what can you do. I’m aiming for a mix of authenticity and unreliable here, folks; have a heart)).

Anyway; the stooge. He’s there (here) tapping away on a keyboard thinking that he’s writing experimental fiction. Little does …


Well, that’s my 500 words done. Have a nice day.