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Can't Milk those darn Cowephants!

carrotsnmysox — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 11:45:59 -0800

The letter is written in fairly clean handwriting on a piece of paper that's obviously homemade, pressed with a few flower petals here and there. It's been put in a bright red envelope and tied to a blue bird's leg. The writing is in green ink. For all the letter's careful charm, there are a few big splats of what looks like mud, but doesn't smell as sweet.

Can't Milk those darn Cowephants!
(Tree + Flag)

Monks of the Temple,

I am a humble farmer. I live with my young husband, Roland, and we tend our little property with the hard hands of good decent folk. On our little planet it's hard to grow too much and villages often squabble over land, food and animals because of it. Food is scarce, and in this little village we are the only farmers.

Our village is tiny and hidden between two great mountains in a valley, so we don't get too much trouble normally, but lately the neighbours to the North been affected hard by the drought, everyone has, and they're contesting ownership of land and pinching our animals at night. Worst of all is the cowephant, which are mighty valuable around here. They're huge beasts that fly way up in the mountain mists, they smell bad but they're cute things and they give a whole heapin' load of milk, enough to get our tiny village through a rough drought.

I've been pulling a double shift watching the Cowephants to keep the greedy buggers away, but I'm afraid our little baby airwhale isn't up to all nighters. Silver's been grounded with fin rot, and he's the only airwhale we've got broke in around here. I'm sure Silver'll get better, but while he's sick I can't fly up to watch the herd.

Now, if I can't watch the herd that means a couple things. First of all the folk here in town are running down their rations and no milk means a lot of skinny folk. Plus, sooner or later a thief is going to nab a couple head, if not the whole lot. If we lose those varmints, we'll be flat broke and hungry. To top it off, my favorite of the bunch, ol' Bess is due to calf soon and that'd be a cryin' shame to lose that babe- and the money we'd get from selling such a fine animal.

Already I'm sure those poor Cowephants are aching to be milked. Ain't there any way you monks could lend a hand?

Thank You Kindly,
Mary

THERE ARE GIANT BUGS IN OUR STEAM COMPUTER

Peter Aronson — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 09:45:23 -0700

The letter is typed (and punched) on a series of oak tag punch cards.

MONKS!

STEAM IS OUR FUTURE - ALWAYS HAS BEEN, ALWAYS WILL BE!

HERE ON OUR WORLD WE HAVE BEEN ENGAGED FOR DECADES IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF AN ENORMOUS STEAM-POWERED MECHANICAL COMPUTER (THE STEAMIAC) TO CALCULATE THE EXACT MOTIONS OF THE LITTLE WORLDS IN ORDER TO IMPROVE NAVIGATION AND TRADE.

THE STEAMIAC IS ENORMOUS, COVERING ONE AND A HALF COUNTIES TO A HEIGHT OF A 100 METERS AND BURROWING INTO THE DEPTHS BY AN EQUAL AMOUNT. OVER THE YEARS, FED BY THE READY AVAILABILITY OF HEAT AND WATER, IT HAS DEVELOPED ITS OWN ECOSYSTEM. MANY UNIQUE SPECIES OF MOLDS, FUNGI, PLANTS AND ANIMALS LIVE WITHIN ITS CORRIDORS. INSECTS HAVE DONE PARTICULARLY WELL IN THIS ENVIRONMENT, OFTEN GROWING TO ENORMOUS SIZE. THIS SIZE UNFORTUNATELY MEANS THAT WHEN THESE GIANT INSECTS GET CAUGHT IN THE STEAMIAC'S GEARS, IT BRINGS THE MACHINE TO A CRASHING HALT. OUR PROGRAMMERS ARE MOST UPSET, AND GRACE BROOKS, OUR CHIEF OF PROGRAMMING, IS ON THE VERGE OF RESIGNING.

WE HAVE TRIED CONVENTIONAL INSECTICIDES, BUT THE INSECTS DEVELOPED IMMUNITIES RATHER FASTER THAN OUR MAINTENANCE CREWS DID. WE HAVE TRIED HUNTING THEM WITH GUNS AND DOGS, BUT SOME OF THE SPECIES HAVE TURNED OUT TO BE VERY DANGEROUS, AND THE CHIEF OF MAINTENANCE REFUSES TO SEND ANY FURTHER CREWS OUT FOR THIS PURPOSE. THUS, MONKS, WE HAVE TURNED TO YOU. CAN YOUR PILGRIMS HELP US? OUR MOST LAUDABLE PROJECT IS IN REAL DANGER OF FAILING!

THIS MESSAGE WILL BE PLACED IN A WATERPROOF WAXED ENVELOPE AND DROPPED IN THE BIT-BUCKET FOR TRANSMISSION TO YOUR TEMPLE.

YOURS,

ALFRED HOPPER,
CHIEF OF PROJECT.

Dragon Child

carrotsnmysox — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 11:08:06 -0800

The letter is written on what looks like a bit of trash paper with rough charcoal from the end of a burnt stick. The letters are big, hardly legible and some are backwards and every other word is spelled wrong. It is rolled up and tied with a bit of dirty twine. On the back there appears to be an old shopping list.

Dragon Child

(Knot + Tree)

DER MONKS,

My nAMe is UrkgraHH and i ned HelP. My Famly is BIG and im smal. My broFArs and sisFArs fhly and plAy and Blo BIG Fires at the pepul in the toWn bellow. it look so mUch Fun but i donnt no how too fhly and my bref donnt Have fires in it no mater hoW hard i blo. i donnt evin have Wings!! the BiG kids laf at me and say "she stupid, stupid UrKgrAHH cannt Fhly none!"

Moma says im pepul Folk and pepul Folk don'nt no how two fhly and blo Fires like dragon Folk do. Moma says im ~~adahpid~~ ~~adapted~~ adopted so im nOt guna lern Fhlying. But i ax MurrSSShd my bigist broFar and he says pepul can too Fhly!! he says monks Fhly and that thay go ALL thru the SKy and ~~myb~~ maybee thay donn't blo no Fires but they do ofher stuF too thats juSt as ~~god~~ good!

Can yu Fhly? Can yu help me lern to do it so ofher dragons don make jokes? i want too kil towN pepul and be biG like them!

(signed) URKGRAHH

Watchers of the Immortal Storm

Peter Aronson — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 21:20:24 -0800

The letter is written in a slightly messy hand in pencil on the back of an old sky map. The map indicates a set of worlds very distant from the Floating Temple.

Hey Monks,

I'm writing to you because the supposed "grownups" are all too proud to ask for help, but since I'm only an apprentice I can ignore all the garbage. Anyway, I'm Melanie Tay Vodoss and I'm an apprentice Storm Watcher of the Stormwatch Fleet. And we really need your help.

In case you don't know, the Stormwatch Fleet is this large collection of skyships that follow the Immortal Storm around, warning the worlds in its path so that they can prepare for the storm and limit the damage it does. As for what the Immortal Storm is, well, it's a huge, violent storm that travels the airs between the worlds, and it's much, much bigger than any world we've ever heard of.

Warning people about the Immortal Storm is the whole reason for the Stormwatch Fleet's existence, and it's also how we make our living. You see, the worlds we warn are usually at least a bit grateful, so they supply us with supplies, food and money. And that worked pretty well for a long, long time. But for the last few generations, it hasn't worked so well.

That's because the Storm's path took it into a great void where there are no worlds. No, you might think that's fine, no worlds, no danger, no problem. But there is a problem, because the Storm is almost done passing through that void, and there are plenty of worlds on the other side. Not to mention that without contact with worlds to weaken it, the storm has gotten even stronger. And the fleet's falling to pieces.

With no worlds for support, we've had to exist on sky whale and air plants and ship's gardens (and occasional monsters that come out of the Storm). But the sky ships need wood, metal and rope to keep them in repair, and all we've had for the longest time is whale bone. Needless to say, the ships are all falling apart. We've managed to keep some of them in repair by disassembling others, but you can only do that so long before things get real crowded on the rest of the ships. Anyway, our engineers have determined that our ships will have all broken down by the time the Storm reaches the next group of worlds. Which is, you know, really bad.

Anyway, the Grand Captain (that's my dad, Trevarian Tay Vodoss) and the command council have decided that we have no other choice, but to abandon the Storm and head our fleet to the nearest inhabited world.

There's a lot of problems with this idea, the first being that the nearest world is not one of the worlds threatened by the Immortal Storm, or even very close to it, so it's a useless destination from the point of view of warning anyone. The second being, that this world will have no reason to help the fleet, so we'll either have to sell our ships and settle down leaving the Storm without any guardians (my dad's plan) or we'll have to raid for what we need like sky pirates (my Uncle Jack's plan). Frankly, both of these ideas stink like month-old pickled whale meat. So I'm hoping you guys can send some pilgrims to come up with another plan that isn't entirely stupid, bad or wrong.

Thanks!

Melanie Tay Vodoss

I wonder if this letter ought to be somehow connected with Daniel's Fluttering Menace: The Butterfly Conspiracy letter, since the organizations seems sort of similar. Of course, it's a big universe.

The Peaceful Disease

carrotsnmysox — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 11:01:21 -0800

The letter is written on tightly wrapped scroll, the parchment bleached to a crisp white. The edges are bordered with elaborate gold and silver patterns and it is contained in a seamless glass cylinder found floating aimlessly on the tail of a balloon. In immaculate calligraphy is written “To whom it may concern.”

The Peaceful Disease
(Tree + Sword + Pen)

To Whom It May Concern,

I, Ca’trel of the Cloud, Keeper of Books, humbly request assistance for my people. We are a quiet, honest people who, through our efforts towards harmony, have lived without conflict for many ages. Only recently has a sorrow penetrated our existence.

Reminded through old stories of war and famine, we strive to preserve life and well-being amongst all those in the Cloud. The Cloud provides for us perfectly and we do not want for anything. Stones, plants and creatures waft through the Cloud with us. We make our homes in the floating white stones, constructing vast libraries dedicated to the virtues of knowledge and truths. The endless drifting orchards provide us with all the sustenance we need. We do not harm any of our fellow creatures for food nor sport, but take joy in them from the tiniest ti’li bug to the behemoth She’thel’ra himself. We have known peace with the natural world as well as we have known peace with each other.

Thus, it was a shock when the Peaceful Disease appeared. It has seized the tiny and innocent ler’ri’uqs. Ler’ri’uqs, once known for their gamboling ways, soft white pelts and silent wisdom, have become something very dreadful. When infected, the eyes turn red and froth forms across the maw. Once the ler’ri’uqs nibbled quietly the fruit of bramble vines, but under the Peaceful Disease they leap upon the people of the Cloud. Once bitten, one falls into a long, still sleep, and death surely follows.

The people of the Cloud are an innocent and gentle people. They do not react and accept their death as honorable, it being better to not harm an innocent creature than to defend one’s life. An ethical man is seen as one who does not disrupt this natural occurrence, and many even seek their fate as a desirable moral duty. The animal’s lives are sacred and treasured while ours quietly slip away. More than a third of the Cloud has perished thusly.

As Keeper of Books I have read many things. I have read of the old days when man fought man and beasts were brutally murdered and consumed. More importantly, I have read of diseases plaguing the Cloud and the destruction they inflicted. There are many ways the people of old defeated these illnesses: through violent destruction of life and something called “scientists” whom I can only guess cured disease through some lost knowledge.

I have presented the people of the Cloud with some of these ancient ideas of change, of anything but stillness, but have been vehemently ostracized. I am powerless. The people will not harm these creatures, and I am at a loss. If there is any wisdom in the hearts of those who find this letter, let them enlighten the stubborn but gentle people of the Cloud.

Signed,
Ca’trel of the Cloud, Keeper of Books

Excessive Elves

Peter Aronson — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 16:14:19 -0800

The letter is typed on ordinary paper with ordinary ink and signed in an ordinary hand.

Guys, you got to help us! We got elves everywhere, and I tell you, they're driving us all around the bend! And I don't mean two-foot-tall little cute Christmas elves, either, but the six-foot-tall variety, complete with wise gray eyes, pointed ears, silver hair, billowing cloaks -- the whole nine yards.

They showed up on a Monday (which kind of figures, somehow). It was a pretty ordinary Monday with too much traffic, too much work, and not enough coffee or sleep. You know, Monday. Then, they came walking out of every wood on the world at the same time. Except, you know, these guys don't exactly walk anywhere; they stride or they glide or appear silently, but Heaven forbid they should do anything so ordinary as just walk like normal people.

At first, they just stood around in little clumps, looking calm and all-knowing. Then they started frowning in disapproval at normal stuff, like cars and smokestacks and garbage cans. Then, dear god, they started to share their "wisdom" with us. Like about how we were abusing nature, and that they could "hear" the trees calling out in grief and the grass crying in pain other gruff like that. And if they just kept it to stuff like that, it'd been bad enough. But they didn't.

They started walking into people's homes, practically uninvited. Oh, they'd ask first, oh so politely, but they'd do it in a way so formal, old-fashioned and confusing that by the time you'd figured out what they'd said you'd already let them in. And once inside they'd start giving suggestions about everything, and I mean everything. They'd tell you how to rearrange your house to make it look better, they'd tell you what to feed your cat to make her happier, they'd tell you what to teach your kids "to improve their spirits" whatever that meant. And while they'd be doing this, they'd be standing there, drop-dead gorgeous or handsome, looking at you with those ancient, wise gray eyes, expecting you to do just what you said. And if you didn't, they wouldn't do anything but look sorrowful and disappointed. But you see, they're really, really good at that looking sorrowful stuff -- they could give guilt causing lessons to my Aunt Matilda, and let me tell you, until these guys came, she was world champ in guilt!

So, most people pretty much started doing whatever the elves ask to avoid those looks. And it be fair, it's a healthier life you get in return. But it ain't much fun: all that walking and singing (those elves are real big into singing), no meat, no cigars, no whiskey, no sleeping around, no football, no drag racing, and definitely no fun. It ain't a big surprise that people are pulling up stakes and moving to other worlds to get away from those pains in the rear. Why last week, my best bud Frank had to go and fix something in his hunting shack in the North Woods (not that anyone hunts "our furred brothers and sisters" any more). While he was out there, he had the bad luck to run into one of the chief elves, meditating out in the woods. Well, before Frank could get away, he had a life and a half's worth of mystical hooey transmitted directly into his skull and now, this big, tough truck mechanic wanders around town talking to flowers and birds with a really weird smile pasted on his mug. It's enough to make a man cry into his beer (except all we got to drink now is wine, which while it has a kick, is just spoiled grape juice if you ask me), and Franks wife is taking him away to another world to try to get him cured.

You might wonder why we don't grab our guns and baseball bats and chase these pointy-eared yahoos off of our world. The trouble is, if you try something like that, they just stand there looking noble and long-suffering and stuff and you end up feeling just like a puppy that just piddled on the rug. On the other hand, if things get bad enough and people get desperate enough, then maybe things will get down and dirty. That could be bad too, since these elf boys and girls all have long silvery swords and these curvy bows and I bet they know how to use them. Things would pretty likely get really ugly if things go that way.

So, if you guys could send some pilgrims and get rid of these elves before everyone moves away or things get real violent, we'd appreciate it. I'm going to throw this letter in the trash bin behind O'Malley's Bar -- that'll get it to you pronto, and those elves wouldn't look back there in a million years.

Thanks,

Bill Smith

URGENT LIFE OR DEATH

cappadocius — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 17:50:38 -0800

This letter is actually a postcard. On one side is a picture of a native dancer on a beach, the other side is written in very small, very girlish handwriting.

Hi Temple Monks!

This picture should be me because Mom promised me that if I got all As on my report cards we could go here for summer break. Then stupid Bill lost his job and now Mom says we have to use the money to tide us over until he got a new job. I could just die! I promised Becky and Shannon that I would bring them back authentic Island Jewlery! Help me get to Alalawaui! I will have Schnapps bury this because he is a Luck Hound and they know about this stuff!

XOXOXO

Aileen

The Insomnia Plague – A Zombie Apocalypse

Peter Aronson — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 09:57:28 -0700

The letter is hand-printed in pencil on typing paper. It appears to have been copied out very carefully, though there are some signs of erasure.

Pilgrims,

It might seem strange to you that we have not written to you before, but truth to be told, here on Stramonium, The Flying Temple is considered a children's myth, on the order of the Christmas Bunny or the Easter Clause. However, we are running out of food and ammunition, and at this point, frankly, we'll try anything.

The situation is, well impossible. But I'll give you Dr. Davis Wade's (our sole surviving scientist) summery of the situation.

No one knows where the plague first originated, but it clearly had two phases. The first, wildfire phase where the plague spread by air or touch, started in Spring. Within a month, over 98% of the world's population was infected. The second phase, the zombie phase, followed immediately afterwards.

The effects of the plague are same, no matter the method of infection. First, the victim runs a brief, high fever for about a day. Then, they appear to recover, but now have completely lost the ability to sleep without the aid of powerful narcotics. Within 48 hours the victim begins to hallucinate. Within 96 hours, they begin to experience psychosis, coupled with uncontrolled telekinetic abilities (also known as "poltergeist phenomenon"). After 120 hours, 9.99% of the infected slip into the so-called zombie state.

A zombie, while technically alive, no longer possesses a normal metabolism, but rather, is sustained by their psychic abilities. A zombie has no need to eat and only needs a tiny amount of water to drink. Mentally, a zombie usually has an IQ in the 60 to 80 range. Zombies mostly wander aimlessly in a dream-like state, barely remembering anything of their previous existence. The only two things will usually rouse them from their apathetic state: a threat to their existence, or the presence of uninfected humans in the immediate vicinity. Zombies will attack any uninfected humans they encounter, and attempt to eat their brains. A zombie that consumes at least a quarter of a healthy human brain will regain their full intelligence and awareness for 24 to 48 hours before falling back into their usual daze; this is an addicting experience and a zombie who has once fed on human brains will seek them out vigorously in the future. Zombies appear to be able to sense healthy humans psychically within a range of 30 to 40 feet. The bite of a zombie almost inevitably passes on the plague, even if the subject is immune to the airborne variety of the pathogen.

The other 0.01% of the infected population becomes something other than zombies. Called "Zombie Masters", "Wizards" or "Brains", these individuals never leave the psychotic phase of the disease, but instead develop vast psychic powers and the ability to command normal zombies to do their bidding. These zombie masters have no particular desire to consume uninfected brains like their minions, but they have been known to hunt uninfected humans down to infect them in attempts to create others of their kind. Zombie masters often war upon each other. Zombie masters are almost always of above average intelligence and creativity before their infection. Zombie masters can exist without food as zombies do, but prefer to eat.

A recently made (no more than 10 days old) zombie or zombie master can sometimes be cured. The process requires giving them massive does of anti-viral drugs and narcotics (usually morphine). If the zombies can then be kept unconscious for 48 or longer hours, they will either die (the usual case) or recover from their disease. Those who do recover often have the same psychic powers as a zombie master.

That is what we know.

So this is our situation -- we are, essentially, doomed. I will place this letter in the chimney of the fortified estate we few survivors are huddled in, and if the old tales are true, it will make its way to you. I don't know if there is anything you can do to help, but at this point, you pilgrims are our only hope.

Yours,

Janus Prospero

A Load of Crap

QHudspeth — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 13:59:07 -0700

This letter is written on hand-made paper, with elegant handwriting, and strange ink. It was lovingly enclosed in a sacrificial bird and tossed into the maw of a ketoptera, a giant whale-bat of Phytochorosa. It was prompted by a comment on Daniel's blog (http://gobi.livejournal.com/675386.html).

DO: A LOAD OF CRAP
Most Honored Pilgrims of the Sun Temple:

I write to you as one Holy Woman to many, and I implore you for your aid.

Long and long ago my ancestors sailed the Æther between the Worlds in great cylindrical ships of wood, bone, and cloth. For many long stretches of days they traveled, cataloguing and exploring the Worlds. On one such trip the explorer ship Rocinante foundered in a storm and was lost within a great sea of plants—spheres of lacy fern-like foliage ranging in size from the smallest of spore-specks to great worldlets with woody labyrinthine interiors. It was upon one of these large planitia that Rocinante crashed and was destroyed. But many of her occupants survived to form a colony here in Phytochorosa, that sea of plant-spheres.

Many generations passed and some of the Dinae—as the people of Phytochorosa came to call themselves—left Primoplanita to colonize others of the larger planitia. They thrived and multiplied, learning to care for and sustain themselves on the flora and fauna that lived within and among the planitia. Chief among the animals of Phytochorosa are the magnificent ketoptera. Enormous cylindrically symmetric beasts like whales with diaphanous wings, they ride the Æther currents between the planitia, feeding upon plants and animals, which they sweep into their maws with delicate pteripalps. They are beautiful and awesome to behold, and we, the Ketopterites, are blessed to live among them and upon them. We care for them almost as herders of old. I say almost because we do not exploit the ketoptera. We seek only to serve and be blessed by our lords.

But the Dinae do not exalt the ketoptera as we do, and seek only to use them for their own gain. Already have we seen attempts to enslave our holy lords, and we have intervened with good success. But these sacrileges were perpetrated only by small, easily dissuaded groups. Now looms an even greater threat.

Many among the Dinae have forsaken the old ways for what they call progress. They ruthlessly exploit the natural resources of Phytochorosa, corrupting and bending the laws of nature to their will. Great hulking behemoths of metal and steam now plough through the Æther where once ships sailed gently upon the winds. This “progress” disturbs the ketoptera and their food sources. As if this were not affront enough, their “natural philosophers” covet and steal that which rightly belongs to the ketoptera and their servants.

Around a generation ago some foul philosopher discovered ketoptera guano—which floats freely within Phytochorosa, aggregating into lumpy coprolitic asteroids, and which we have long used to fashion holy relics—could be processed to release a number of hellish compounds. They now seek it relentlessly, sending expedition after expedition into the vast wilderness in search of these coproids.

We Ketopterites travel great distances with our pods, and it often takes several hundred days to traverse a migration circuit. Because of this, we have not been able to keep abreast of all the Dinae would do and several days ago our greatest fear was realized. The Dinae have discovered Connubilacuna, the vast, open space at the center of Phytochorosa, where the ketoptera gather to mate and birth their young. Here lies an enormous coproid of planetary proportions, aggregated over many tens of millions of days. And here we found Dinae defiling our most sacred of spaces, mining guano, and infesting tunnels of their own creation. They have refused to leave, citing some obscure law of the Dinea. They will not accept that their laws have no meaning here!

Please, Most Honored Ones—help us rid ourselves of this vermin.

Yours in Faith, Jeriba Toscal

Our Alphabet is Vanishing!

Peter Aronson — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 10:43:42 -0700

The message is written on business-quality paper using a mechanical typewriter.

Dear Monks,

Our letters are vanishing from our alphabet! Once we had 26 letters in our alphabet, but now we're down to 23 and I am much afraid that more will vanish soon.

We don't know the reason the letters are vanishing -- some think the super villain known as the "Phantom Teacher" is stealing them somehow, others believe it is because the mad scientist Doctor Sinister von Boom has flooded silverfish and bookworms with radiation, and the resulting mutant bugs are eating the letters, others claim it is because we're reading too large amounts of comic books. But whatever the cause, once a letter vanishes, it vanishes from all places at once -- books, newspapers, and even those round things someone hits when someone uses a writing machine. And no one can write them with a pen, either.

When the last letter in the alphabet vanished, it wasn't too bad. True, we had to write "place with the animals" instead of "?oo", and "blade" instead of "ra?or", but we could cope. But when the second to last letter vanished, it got a lot harder. I had to call the machine I use in the work I do each period of light a "writing machine" instead of a "t?pewriter". When the third to last letter vanished, we all got downright scared. True, that letter wasn't used much, but the preceding letter in the alphabet is "w", and if that vanished, it would make all sorts of writing far too hard! We'd have to give up reading and writing, which would be bad, bad, bad! Modern culture lives and dies through the written word.

So, if some pilgrims could be sent to help us solve this problem, that would be a great good thing! I shall make this letter into a paper airplane and throw it off the top of the Clark Kent tower -- that should get it to the temple soon.

Thanks and be quick!

Lester Savage

Tribes of the Endless Library

Peter Aronson — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 22:12:05 -0700

The letter is written in pencil on a stack of the sort of cards used in old-fashioned card catalogs.

Greetings in the name of the books!

I am Michael Ernest James Joyce Fitzgerald, Eldest Reader of the Clan of the Third Poetry Courtyard, and we eagerly beseech the aid of the Flying Temple, for our world is hard beyond standing.

Once our world was a normal world where normal folk lived their normal lives more or less in peace. Oh, we were known for our libraries and scholars, and particularly of schools of library science, but this had little effect on most people's lives.

Then hard times came, and work became hard to find, and our schools and our libraries became the only way anyone could earn a living. Soon, schools of library science and actual libraries covered most of our world. More and more books poured into our little world every day.

Then something happened. Maybe it was all the books, maybe a malicious god, but one day, everything changed. The libraries grew overnight until they covered the entire world, except for an occasional grassy quadrangle. And the librarians, too, were changed, becoming glowing beings, ten foot tall, bearing mysterious and terrible powers. And their anger became terrible: any who harmed a book, no matter how slightly, would now bring down their wrath. If they were lucky, they would only be slain by a swift bolt of lightening, if they were not, stone angels would be sent to rend them and their tribe to pieces.

Those of us who were not transformed retreated to the quadrangles, where we could farm and raise stock. But there is never enough land, and tribe wars on tribe with spear and knife (but always careful to avoid the anger of the librarians). Over long time and through terrible wars another weapon was developed: the books themselves.

Most tribes forbid the art of reading, as it encouraged the handling of books with its terrible potential for bringing disaster down on the entire tribe. However, much useful knowledge could be found in books; in particular, secrets of warfare and agriculture. So most tribes had at any time a small number of readers, painstakingly trained to handle books in relative safety. These readers would venture into the library halls for days at a time in search of useful knowledge. And one day, somewhere, a reader discovered a new power: the ability to call characters from books.

These characters would do the summoning readers' bidding to the best of their ability, and when slain, simply returned the book. Character summoning, however, puts the book (and thus the tribe) in greater danger of damage. Thus, most tribes forbid it, except in times of dire necessity. But when necessary, a tribe rich in readers can unleash fictional hordes upon their enemies.

Thus, between limited land, warfare between tribes, attacks by enemies real and fictional, and the ever present threat of the librarian's wrath, life here is very hard. We would have asked for help from the Flying Temple long ago, but when the world was transformed, the hollow prayer stones where we used to hide our letters to the temple were lost to us. However, recently, when on a search for an obscure wing of the library, I found a tiny, long-lost courtyard. Within this courtyard was a prayer stone! So I will leave this letter to be carried to your temple.

Please shield us from the wrath of the librarians!

Michael Ernest James Joyce Fitzgerald

Deliver Us From the Hands of the Authors!

Peter Aronson — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 17:40:12 -0700

The letter is written in oil on a piece of blue-checked gingham fabric.

Monks of the Flying Temple, you just got to save us from the authors! If you don't we'll all go mad, or something worse. The five of us have been so many different things at so many different times that we can't really remember who we were to begin with. At least our basic identities stay the same -- we're always The Girl, The Dog, The Straw Man, The Metal Man and the Lion. But the details keep changing something awful. Some days I'm a little girl, the next a grown woman, and sometimes I just want get home to my family, and sometimes I want . . . other things, things to do with my fellow cast members that seem wrong when I'm little. It's very disturbing!

But you know what's even more disturbing? We can hear all the authors muttering to themselves as they hang out there in the air between worlds, looking down on us and changing us. But we don't want to be changed! It's not right, not at all. We just want to be the people we originally were, whatever that was. So could you kindly send us some pilgrims and have them tell the authors to please leave us alone?

Thanks a bunch! I'll stick this letter inside the metal man the next time he's hollow -- that should get it to you.

Sincerely yours,

The Girl

We Are All Dreaming About Worms

Peter Aronson — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 16:36:23 -0800

The letter is handwritten on machine-made stationary, with multi-segmented, three-eyed worms doodled all over the margins in blue ballpoint pen.

Monks of the Temple,

Everybody on our world seems to be dreaming about worms lately; blue-glowing eight-foot-long worms with three eyes, many segments and round mouths full of teeth (I know this because they call in to my radio show and tell me). And stranger still, anyone we talk to about these worms seems to start dreaming about them too. Max Von Winkle, the famous psychologist, came to our world to study this phenomenon. At first he used terms like "communicable psychosis" and "mass hysteria", but then he started seeing the worms, too. Now he just spends all his time in the university library, reading all sorts of obscure books and won't talk to anyone.

Dreaming about worms isn't too bad by itself (although they are a bit alarming in appearance), but they also seem to be taking over our arts. Painters can't help adding worms to all of their painters, singers sing about worms, and even small children add worms to their finger paintings. And people who see the paintings or listen to the music start dreaming about the worms, too.

This bothers our neighbors, and so nobody comes and visits our world anymore, and we're not welcome anymore on any of our neighbor's worlds. Needless to say, this has hurt our tourism industry a great deal. But it's getting even stranger -- a few folks have started predicting that the worms are going to visit our world in person. And at least some of these people are worried -- they think the worms might be hungry.

I'm going to place this message in my dryer -- I figure if it makes socks disappear, it shouldn't have any problems with a letter.

Best regards,

Eddie Eddison
Host, World Talk
WRMM Radio

Someone Is Stealing Our Rainbows!

Peter Aronson — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 15:57:12 -0800

Dear Monks.

Not everyone on our world cares, but someone has been stealing our rainbows! After a storm, you can see them up in the sky in a cannon-armed sky-ship with black sails. They float up to the rainbow, and then stick their infernal device over the side of their ship, and actually vacuum the rainbow from the sky! Then they sail off into the sky until the next storm.

You may wonder why I care -- after all, rainbows are pretty, but hardly important, right? Wrong! Rainbows, I am convinced, our essential to our mental and spiritual health. Since this thievery began two years ago, there has been a subtle but noticeable decline in the happiness of our people. I'm a mathematician, as is my daughter Yolanda, and together we've been tracked many things: how many hours a day children play in the mud, how many times in a week adults spontaneously burst into song, the average time it takes young people fall in love again after a disappointment, and many other similar measures. And they've all shown distinct downward trends since the rainbow thefts began.

Now, who is behind this awful business, I do not know: perhaps mad scientists, perhaps the priests of Jurgen (who do seem to want to outlaw fun in our lifetime), perhaps it is the moon trolls of legend. But I can tell you where you may find them! We have watched countless of their raids using our trusty telescope, and it is clear that they always fly away to the backside of our world's tiny moon. Alas, we are not a sky-travelling people, or I would travel to the moon myself and give them a piece of my mind!

I will send this letter to the temple by repeatedly folding it until it disappears. Please send us some pilgrims to straighten this matter out!

Sincerely,

Margret St.Ivenstoll

Does Anyone Know How to Steer a Giant Turtle?

Peter Aronson — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 16:03:52 -0800

The letter is painted with a small brush in red paint on the back of a large, colorful poster for The Circus of Seventeen Worlds.

Hey folks, did you ever want to visit the circus!? Well, here's your chance! The All Amazing Circus of Seventeen Worlds and a Hundred Wonders has just issued a personal invitation to each and any pilgrim from The Flying Temple who wants to attend! Assuming you can find us, that is.

Our circus has from time out of mind (well, for over fifty years, anyway) inhabited a small town built on the back of a giant, flying turtle named Bertha (the turtle, that is). Bertha has always flown in a fixed pattern among seventeen little worlds, stopping a week or so at a time at each. When she stopped, we'd put on a circus. This had been going on since the first Ringmaster found Bertha and made an agreement with her.

Each Ringmaster in turn renewed the agreement with Bertha, and our way of life continued uninterrupted. Oh, occasionally someone would leave the circus, or someone would join, but for the most part we were born in the circus, grew up in the circus, and died in the circus. And we wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

However, our last Ringmaster, George Zinger, died before he could pass on the secret of how to talk to Bertha. Worse, he died from Voog Fever, and as typical for the disease, he died raving and ranting. However, Bertha must have understood something he said in his final delirium, because instead of continuing on to the next world (Lesser Flemming), she turned into the great deeps and flew in a new direction. And this new direction doesn't seem to have any worlds!

Because Bertha did all the serious flying, we don't have much in the way of ships -- just a few sky-skiffs for the advance men, and some very slow heavy-lifting balloons for loading and unloading. So we're kind of stuck. And, while we have gardens, we don't grow enough to feed both us and the animals, so that's really not good. So, could you maybe send us someone who can talk to giant flying turtles?

Thanks! I'll roll this letter up and hide it under a seat in the Big Top -- that usually does it.

The Amazing Moho the Clown

Large Birds of Prey Will Carry Us Away

Peter Aronson — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 15:37:37 -0800

The letter written in pencil on the back of complicated military form having something to do with travel.

Dear Pilgrims,

Sorry to bother you, but I could do with a spot of rescuing. But only the right type of rescuing -- I'm sorry to say that the wrong sort of rescuing could be worse than not being rescued at all.

It all started when me and my mates were all drafted for the big war with Eastasia. The business was none of our idea, but no one asked us. So anyway, they run us through basic training and in no time we're standing on sky docks, in a bleeding gale, every man-jack of us carrying fifty pounds of equipment and an unloaded gun ('cause they didn't trust us not to shoot the bloody officers). There we are, standing in the rain, hungry, tired and soaked to the skin, with the cavalry behind us making sure we don't desert like sensible fellows, waiting for the gale to die down so we can board the skyships, when some lets out a shout and suddenly there these giant birds swooping down from the sky.

Well, we sensibly enough tried to run, but we'd been packed together so tight that most of us had nowhere to go. Before I knew what had happened, I was grabbed by the claws of the biggest damn eagle I'd ever seem in my life. The eagle screamed louder than a fire siren, and then leapt into the air, beating its wings like anything. At which point, like any reasonable fellow, I passed out.

When I came to, I was in the biggest bird's nest you ever did see with five other guys from my unit. Several them were still out cold, but a couple of them were awake and looking over the edge of the nest. I joined them and looked down. We were in the branches of the biggest tree you (or anyone) had ever seen, and it was a long, long way down to the ground. If there was any ground.

We discussed the situation, and agreed we had been the victims of an Eastasian secret weapon. We also figured our chances of being rescued were pretty slim, because face it, the army didn't give a fig for about what happened to us.

Soon, the eagle came back, or rather, two eagles. And they were holding in their mouths something that squirmed kind of oddly. When they landed we could see that they held was worms. Live worms, longer than a man was tall and thicker than a strong man's arm. Which they proceeded to drop at our feet. Then the eagles moved back a bit and eyed us expectantly.

One of the other men -- a fellow named Benson -- broke into laugher. "They must think we're chicks," he said, "they're feeding us!"
At which point, one of the eagles made a very loud cheeping sound, and pushed the (still squirming) worm toward us with its (her?) beak. Well, there was nothing else I could do, so I killed it with my trench knife and began to slice it up.

The other fellows stared at me in surprised horror. "You ain't plannin' on eatin' that, are you?" A fellow named Michaels said, "Not raw?"

I shook me head. "No, not raw," I said, "I got stuff to cook with in my back, and I aim to fry this stuff up." And so I did. And you know, it was actually kind of tasty -- sort of a bit like chicken.

Life hasn't been half bad since then. We lounge around, talk, play cards and sleep, and the birds feed us regularly. We all agree that it’s a lot better life than being in the army. The only thing is, is that we're afraid that at some point the birds are going to decide to teach us all how to fly, and we suspect that might not go so well.

So, if you could send us some pilgrims to rescue us, that'd be really nice. However, I don't think we want to go back to Oceania -- they'd likely only put us in the army again, and none of us want that!

Best regards,

Nikolas Smith,

PS: We'll make this message into a paper glider and throw it off the side of the nest. That ought to get it to you nicely.

This is based on the Rudyard Kipling poem, "Birds of Prey" March, who's second verse goes:

Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
The Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!

Don't Drink the "Light"

Peter Aronson — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 15:40:49 -0800

The letter is written on a pile of stained cocktail napkins in blue ballpoint pen.

Hey Pilgrims! We could use a bit of a hand here. The Floating Admiral, is, well, floating away, and we're almost out of stout.

It started with the new shipment of "Light" ale, "Light" beer and "Light" whiskey that arrived yesterday. Needless to say, none of us regulars wanted to have anything to do with the stuff. However, Brown (the owner) cleverly offered the stuff up at half price. What could we do? We drank up.

It turned out to be an epic night. It seems if you drink enough light booze, it's pretty much like drinking the real thing. Well, at some point, when it was just down to us regulars, Brown locked the door, and the serious drinking commenced.

It was rather late next morning before anyone came to. Old Johnson was first, but when he opened the front door, instead of stumbling out, he leapt back like a scalded cat. It seems that the ground outside happened to be slightly missing.

Well, after Johnson's shout we all woke up and opened the shutters. It was a distressing sight: The Floating Admiral was airborne, without any bit of land in sight. We figure that drinking (and spilling) all that light booze the night before must have made the pub so light that it simply floated off of our little world and into the great airs.

Well, we were sitting there in the pub, having a liquid breakfast with peanuts on the side, wondering how we'd get home, when the pot man gave a yell. It was dragons! Dragons were flying right toward The Floating Admiral.

Now, these were smallish dragons, not much bigger than a horse, but still rather well equipped with fangs and claws. They flew right up to the door and pushed their way in, breaking the crossbar (which we had hastily placed) like it was nothing. We were certain that we were dead men, but they ignored us and slithered up to the bar, where they ordered stout, just as polite as polite could be.

Well, being no fool, Brown served them. Well, the Admiral is justly famous for its stout, and these dragons were apparently creatures of discernment, for they drank up promptly, with obvious signs of enjoyment. Not to mention they paid for their drinks in gold, which pleased Brown no little bit (and in fact he muttered something to the effect that his regulars could stand to learn a thing or two from these dragons).

Well, seeing that the dragons seemed peaceable enough, we were all soon mingling. But to our disappointment, the dragons claimed not to have ever heard of our little world or any of the worlds near it. But they looked at each other sidewise in a suspicious manner when they said it. We suspect that maybe they knew more than they were saying, so as not to loose the source of their drink. Worse still, they keep giving us considering looks, like wondering how we'd go with the stout. It would be enough to put lesser drinkers than us off of their sauce. But fortunately, they seem to prefer drinking to eating. At least for the moment.

So, if you could send some pilgrims to rescue us before we either run out of food or maybe become food, we'd heartily appreciate it. We'll stuff these napkins up the chimney to float to you, just like they did it in granddad's day.

Best of the day to you,

Thom Jones

One Wish Left

Peter Aronson — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 16:14:13 -0800

The letter is written on rice paper in what seems to be chocolate scented crayon. The whole sheet somehow smells of sugar and is slightly sticky.

Dear Monks,

Um, you know those old stories about magic lamps with genies in them, who when you release them, grant three wishes? Well, my five-year-old daughter Amanda found one that worked for real. And she used it.

Her first wish wasn't too bad -- she wished for a million stuffed animals. So yeah, the whole town is filled with stuffed animals (our house in particular), but while that's kind of annoying, it's not too much trouble and it's also sort of cute.

However, her second wish was kind of a doozy, though. She wished the whole world would be just like her favorite song, with milkshake fountains and candy fruit growing on trees and lemonade rivers and grass made of chewing gum and chocolate dirt and -- well, you get the idea.

So now, our whole world is made of sweets, and after a week of this, I for one would kill for piece of broccoli. Everyone has a sugar hangover all the time, and you wouldn't believe the mess when it rains!

You might notice that I only mentioned two wishes: that's right, Amanda was so excited by the sweets that she dropped the lamp somewhere in the house. You know, the house that was literally buried to a depth of three to four feet in stuffed animals by her first wish? My husband Henry and I've been looking desperately for the lamp for a week, but it's hard going, and we're afraid to tell anyone else about the lamp for fear we'll be held responsible for the whole mess. So maybe you could send some pilgrims to help us find the lamp so we can make a wish to undo Amanda's second wish?

Thanks!

Lisa Cockaigne

PS: I'm wrapping this letter around a stuffed kitten angel and leaving it in the fireplace -- that's supposed to work, right?

Alone in the Swamps of Love

Peter Aronson — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 16:24:42 -0800

The letter is scratched into the surface of several huge green leaves, apparently with a sharp instrument, and then red mud rubbed into the resulting grooves. The leaves are slightly scorched around the edges. The message smells of growth, earth, decay and burning.

Can you guys help a lonely dinosaur in the swamps of love?

I've got my chocolates, I've got my Elvis wig, I've got my guitar and a whole lot of romantic music, but what I don't have is any eager female dinosaurs. Or any disinterested ones. Or even any downright hostile ones for that matter.

Now, we're a long-lived species, and if we're getting kind of sparse on the ground of late, I might not have noticed. And mating season only comes every ten years. But it's mating season now (I can tell by the smell of the flowers, by the color of the mud, by the position of the moons in the sky; not to mention I've got it marked in my calendar), and I'm the only one here -- there aren't even any other guys! This is strange, in a very, very bad way.

I figure the others must have gotten lost or something. Or maybe they moved to someplace more exciting. In any case, I got to find them -- could you guys send some pilgrims to help? Thanks! I'll throw this message into to volcano for you guys.

Best,

Dino

Bong, James Bong

Peter Aronson — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 15:57:57 -0800

The letter was written using a fountain pen on fancy hotel stationary with L'hôtel de Grande Classe on the top.

Pilgrims,

This is Agent Bong (James Bong), otherwise known as ZZ7, and we have a situation here. It started off routinely enough -- a power-mad megalomaniac with a doomsday device and a plan to conquer the known universe -- but somehow things have spiraled out of control and now we face something far worse: a complete end of all fiction in the universe.

I know it sounds unlikely, but if Dr. Borg's Universal Editor comes on line, he will use it to turn every piece of writing, speech or art into absolute representations of reality. There will be no room for art, metaphor, magic or anything but mundane, everyday reality.

And I'm afraid he's got me trapped -- locked in a fiction-proof room where no secret agent trick, no plot device, no wile will avail me. So it's up to you, pilgrims: he must be convinced to stop. Or he must be stopped. Or the world will be a much sadder place.

I have, I hope, found a place where I can slide this letter past the limits of the fiction-proof zone so it can make its way to your temple (at least for the moment -- when his diabolic device is finished, such magic will no longer exist!). Godspeed and good luck!

James Bong, ZZ7

Why Rocks Talk To Trog?

Peter Aronson — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 16:00:20 -0800

This "letter" is a series of pictograms painted in something brown on a piece of deer skin. What follows is a translation by one of the temple's scholars.

One day, rocks start to talk to Trog. Why do rocks talk to Trog? Trog not talk to rocks! Trog scared. Trog hide in back of cave. Trog put dirt in ears so no hear rocks. Please make rocks stop talking to Trog? Trog will drop this writing in river to go to big float place. You make rocks shut up, OK?

Trog

Could Ya Help the Gentlemen a bit?

Peter Aronson — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 14:07:11 -0800

The letter is written in brownish ink on piece of parchment that has been scraped and reused several times.

Pilgrims,

While I realize this might sound a tad irregular, I wonder if ya might see your way given the gentlemen of the night (smugglers to ya) around here a helpin' hand? Ya see, the local gov'ment has been crackin' down on them something fierce like and they can hardly get their air-skiffs out of hidin' without some revenue cutter jumpin' them and hauling the boys away in chains.

Now ya might think the gentlemen are bad men and deserve bein' carted off to prison or transported for what they has done, but it ain't that simple around here. Ya see the gov'ner, one Lord Royalle, has decided that the common folks (which is pretty much everyone here on Estelle) ain't showing him enough respect, so he's stopped most of our food an' medicine shipments. Now, we got enough marshweed and pomgrass to live off of, sort of, but a kid can't grow up straight an' strong on that sort of diet, and a man who falls sick ain't going to get better. But we're stubborn cusses on Estelle, and we ain't going to bend the knee to some stuffed-up toff from one of the bigger worlds. We'd rather die first, and that's a fact.

So that's where the gentlemen come in, ya see. They've been running in better food and meds for us, an' it's the only thing keepin' us going. Oh, an' they hire local lads to crew their boats an' they pay pretty good, too. More than one local farmer got the price of his land an' his plow crewin' one of the gentlemen's air-skiffs. An' of course they buy our marsh whisky to sell (ya can have as much of it as ya like if ya come, it'll put hair on yer chests, even the girls).

I gotta be straight with you -- things are getting awfully bad here. Over half the kids are down with the Marsh Fever, and without yarrowroot and better food, one in five of them ain't going to get better. And worse, one of 'em's my boy, Richard, and if he dies, I don't know what me and the wife would do. If we can't get stuff we need any other way soon, we're goin' to have to raise the black flag and storm Lord Royalle's castle. And that'd be bad in more ways than a man could count without takin' off his shoes.

Now ya might wonder why we don't simply ask ya to try to soften Lord Royalle's heart, but it's dead simple. Ya can't soften what ain't there.

Yrs,

Garrik FitzWilliams

Sorrow of the Sky Sapphires

Ryan Macklin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 14:55:53 -0800

Encased in a golden cask covered in sapphires, this letter is written on fine, blue-stained vellum with shimmering gold ink. The writing looks fluid and elegant, as though entire sentences were written without lifting the pen.

Greetings, fair monks, from the city of the twin sapphires in the sky, Shuangbao Lanshi. No doubt you have heard tales about our wonderful celestial jewels, Dongbao and Xibao. I am sure that you have seen our two blue stars chase each other in your night sky. Our picturesque world floats serenely in the middle of these ever-circling orbs, never ceasing to brighten our days. We are a wonderful land of an eternal, blue daylight, and our vigilantly-polished brass cities reflect that light back to you with a golden hue, delighting and inspiring people on many other worlds with our beauty and wonder!

But I write not to boast, but to plead for your ever-wise assistance, as disaster has struck! Our Western gem, Xibao, extinguished without any warning! As I write this, our capital city has been without light for over two weeks. My citizens are in panic! Tourism to our glorious world, which we depend on so that our people may live in the glory and splendor that they have as they have for so long, is in steep decline -- indeed, only scientists have been coming visit us, and they do not spend the money that my people need!

Worse yet, the people are scared beyond belief that Dongbao will extinguish next! I humbly beseech you, learned men of the skies and the natural world, to restore our star and bring our world out of darkness! The fate of our world and the joy it brings to all is in your hands.

With respect,
Praetor Iulius Aurelius

Ducks and Foxes

Peter Aronson — Sun, 23 Dec 2007 11:55:21 -0800

The letter is written on a sheet of fine vellum with a slightly disturbing-looking dark brown ink. It shows signs of having been written using a quill.

A clever day to you monk guys!

What we have here, you see, is a problem in interspecies relationships. You see, our world is split between two types of people: fox folks, like me, and the duck folks (oh, there are a few humans and other odds and ends, but they are all mostly tourists and don't really count). Now, sharing a world like we do, you would think we would have to get along pretty well. And we do, except for one little sticking point: despite being people, duck folks are quite delicious.

Now, any sensible guy knows that eating other folks just is not civilized, and in fact, people who make a habit of that activity are quite rightly shunned by all reasonable folk as being nothing but lousy cannibals. But the problem is, sometimes we just can not help ourselves. I mean they smell so tasty, and their flesh is so sweet and toothsome and goes down so nice with a cold beer (or even a warm beer) and, and . . .

Excuse my outburst above, but I have hit my head against my wall several times, and now feel more myself. But you see the problem: if an upright guy such as myself, who believes it is uncouth to chow down on your fellow citizens, sometimes goes off the deep end on the subject, you can imagine what those mugs from Pawtown do when they meet a fellow citizen who happens to have feathers instead of fur. So perhaps you guys can send us some of your pilgrims to push home the message that this sort of behavior is just not OK? And maybe they can burn down Pawtown while they are at it -- those guys are a real disgrace.

Thanks,

Ray the Mouth

We are the Trees

Peter Aronson — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 21:32:32 -0800

The letter is written on what appears to be the inner bark of a birch-like tree, except finer, in black ink; however, on closer examination, the "ink" appears to be natural color variations in the bark.

We are the trees. This is no metaphor, nor a figure of speech: We are the trees. We are the trees and have been for time out of mind. We are the trees and we hold the soil to the ground and the world soul to the world. We are trees. And there is trouble.

We are the trees, and once, there was balance between the five siblings. Tree was equal to flame was equal to water was equal to wind was equal to metal. But balance has been lost. That which contains tree and flame and water and wind and metal has come among us, and splintered us apart and set sibling against sibling so that water powers saw, and controlled flame burns tree, and metal axe cuts tree and all the elements are at war.

We are the trees and we do not understand men. We are the trees, and the trees are dying. We are the trees and we need your help. We are the trees and we need you to speak for us.

We are the trees.

All is White

Peter Aronson — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 20:11:44 -0800

The message is cut into a bleached white wooden tablet covered in pure white wax.

Monks of the Flying Temple!

You must help us before all color is lost from our sight, our lives and our world! Unless something is done, a terrifying, numbing, sterile unnatural whiteness will cover all, and all hope will be lost.

Once our small world of Chroma had as many colors as any other world, or even more, for we were known as "the painter's world." Painters (and other artists) would come from many other worlds to paint our landscapes, to bath in the beauty of our countryside, to gasp at the incomparable glory of our sunsets. In fact, we had so much color, it could be mined out of the ground ready to use, or bubbled up to the surface in springs of pure pigment. But that is all past now, now all of these have been taken by the creeping whiteness, that horrible absence of color.

The pride of our artists has been our downfall. The two greatest amongst our painters, the gods of the brush, were my friends Alphonse and Isabelle. Once lovers, and now fierce rivals, they competed with all their souls to be held to be the best of the best. No sooner would one invent a new brush technique, then the other would develop a new composition method. Back and forth, forth and back went their inventions. In mere years, centuries of progress were made in the arts.

Eventually, their abilities became -- there is no other possible word for it -- uncanny. They began to demonstrate powers beyond those of mortal men and woman. Alphonse painted pictures that hovered in the air by their own power, while Isabelle created paintings that moved and spoke. If only they had stopped at this! But they did not.

It was Isabelle who invented the basic technique, the technique of ultimate colors, that sucked the very colors from reality to concentrate them on the canvas. But it was Alphonse who perfected it, who strengthened it ten-fold so that all color nearby were absorbed by the painting. And then both of them began to paint more and more paintings using the strengthened technique. And our world began to turn white.

Too late we tried to stop them, but all who tried to approach their studios had all their color sucked out of them and were reduced to colorless shadows of themselves, mere wraiths unable to affect the solid world. And the horrible whiteness continues to spread. Please help! We are unable to stop them, but perhaps your pilgrims might be able to. And please hurry while a hint of color remains.

I shall toss this tablet into the (once black but now white) Ink Lake of Hali, and hope it reaches you in time.

Michael Sound

Too Many Elephants

Peter Aronson — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 20:25:06 -0800

The letter is written on fine, unbleached paper in natural ink with a smooth, flowing hand.

Dear Monks of the Flying Temple,

I am afraid we have a problem on our little world of Loxodonta -- we have too many elephants. To fully understand the nature of the problem, I must explain to you the role elephants play on our world. First of all, elephants are holy, as they represent the creative powers of the universe. Second of all, elephants are symbols of hope, since according to the priests, the righteous in this life will be reborn as elephants in the next. Third, they are our partners in the work of life, as elephants (ever so gently treated!) are used for transportation, construction work, and the like. Fourth, elephants are our pride, and our flag, our stamps, our currency and are art are all replete with the image of elephants.

So, you might wonder, how could a people who love elephants so have too many of them? Alas, Loxodonta is a quite small world, and was once densely covered in tropical forest. We, the people of Loxodonta lived in the clearings, and left the forest for the wild elephants. But populations, both of humans and of elephants, can grow over time, and the populations of both have reached the point where our Chief Ecologist has determined that if we do not thin both populations, then disaster is unavoidable.

We have come up with a plan to thin the human population via an emigration lottery. But, we have no way to thin the elephant population, as our lightly built sky ships can not carry any significant numbers of them, and other worlds seem reluctant to accept significant numbers of elephants anyway. So we are hoping you could send some pilgrims whose wisdom would help us see the way to solving our problem.

With Great Hope,

Sir Victor Shim
Prime Minister of Loxodonta

They are about to Hatch!

Peter Aronson — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 18:39:25 -0700

This letter is scrawled in magic marker on a brown paper grocery bag.

Dear Pilgrims,

I need your advice, and soon, if possible. All the eggs look about ready to hatch, and just what the worlds am I supposed to do with three hundred and sixty five baby dinosaurs? My assistant, Dr. Riddley, thinks all of them are viable, too, although we're not sure just what type of dinosaurs they'll be.

Sincerely,

Dr. Phineas J. Dewfellow, Ph.D.
Director of Special Collections
The Museum of Spherewald,
Spherewald City, The World of Spherewald

PS: I am sending this letter by old-fashioned Eagle Mail, as according to my Grandmother, that's the best way to contact you people. That's why it's written on a brown paper bag, in case you were wondering.

A Matter of Roses

RichD — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 07:14:58 -0700

The letter is written on a parchment scroll in red paint streaked with dirt and water.

Sorry to disturb you, Your High and Mighty Monkness, but I just don't know who else to turn to.

You see I and several of my mates tend the garden in the Queen's palace. Her Majesty is very particular about her garden and very proud about showing it off. She's having a tea and croquet party to show off the red rose border we planted last season. They just started blooming today and the flipping roses are white! We must've gotten the seeds mixed up! Its been raining so she hasn't seen the garden yet but the moment the sun comes out, we're all for the chop.

I hope this reaches you quickly. I had to bury it beneath a rose bush.

Yours in Desperation,

Three of Spades

Where Does It All Go?

Peter Aronson — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 21:56:16 -0700

The letter is written on a folded, slightly battered sheet of paper, in several different inks.

My Humble Greetings to the Pilgrims of the Flying Temple!

In the last year I have lost 73 keys, 22 pairs of spectacles, 193 pens, 62 shells, 93 preserved butterflies, 52 hair ornaments and over a 100 miscellaneous coins. In this time I have left my home exactly once. But none of these items appear to be in my home! The local King of the Rats, Spartacus, denies have taken them, as does the local Gremlin Lord, Myfonway (with whom I play Chess twice a week). It is quite a mystery to me, and I hope you can aid me in determining where they have gone. It is not like my world of Lesser Arcadia Minor is such a large place that things may be easily lost on it, and my humble cottage is smaller still.

I shall stick this piece of paper in my pocket where it is sure to disappear and make its way to you.

Eagerly awaiting your arrival,

Dame Agatha Micheala del Conte, Scholar Primus

The Missing Mainspring

Peter Aronson — Sat, 20 Oct 2007 13:28:45 -0700

The letter is written on cream-colored high quality hand-made paper in natural ink. The hand is formal, but slightly shaky. The letter was sealed with a red wax seal showing eight towers radiating out from the center to form a compass rose.

George Mandlebrot
Secretary of the Council of Castilians
The World of Castlemas
Time and Date unknown

Your Excellencies of the Temple,

I am writing to you on behalf of the World of Castlemas to ask your aid in resolving the unprecedented and unfortunate situation we have found ourselves in. To wit, the mainspring of the Heart-Clock is missing, and in consequence, time has all but stopped for our world.

To explain more fully, Castlemas is a world consisting entirely of an enormous, spherical castle. We, the inhabitants live mostly in the surface rooms, tending our gardens and flocks. However, this does not mean the interior of the castle is not important! For at the very center of the castle is the great Heart-Clock, whose very tick is the heartbeat of our world. Without the Heart-Clock, our world would not turn, water would not flow, and time does not pass. Let me repeat this last statement, for I believe it is a matter that distinguishes our world from all others: without the Heart-Clock, time does not pass.

What do I mean by such a statement? Just this: since the disappearance of the mainspring and the subsequent silence of the Heart-Clock, no one awake has been able to sleep, and no one asleep was awoken. No one has eaten, no one has drunk, no one has been born, and no one has died. Even those in the midst of pain and lethal illness can not pass on. All remains as it was at the time of the clock's stopping, a time we can not measure without the clock's beat.

We have, of course, attempted to repair the Heart-Clock. But even the skills of our Master Clocksmith are unable to duplicate the singular components that make up the Heart-Clock! Mainsprings of gold, silver, steel, brass and copper have all proved useless. The repair is clearly beyond our skills.

As for what has happened to the original mainspring, we do not know. None of the seven clocksmiths on duty at the time claim to have seen anything. Whether the mainspring was stolen by man or demon, or simply disintegrated after centuries of use, no one among us can say. But unless we can find or replace the mainspring, or some other means of restarting the Heart-Clock is found, we will have no choice but to leave our home world or all go completely mad. Man was not meant to live outside of time.

Following the ancient tradition, I shall place this letter under the alter of the clocksmith's chapel, which is right by the Heart-Clock.

Your Obedient Servant,

George Mandlebrot
Secretary of the Council of Castilians

Reaching the Summit

RichD — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 08:41:24 -0700

The letter is written on clean white paper with black ink in a shaky handwriting

Enlightened Ones,

I feel like I am betraying my son by even writing you but I fear for his safety too much to stay silent. I loved my Claudius from the first moment I held him, club foot and all. I’ve watched the other children run and jump and play while he limped along as best he could behind them. He never stopped trying. I never knew that a broken heart could swell with pride.

Claudius came of age today. It is a tradition in our village that when a man comes of age he is to climb as high as he can on Mount Fatum and bring back one of the crystals that form there. The Elders came to Claudius and told him he did not have to go and that there was no shame in it. Claudius stood straight and tall and told us all that not only would he go but he would bring back the white crystals found at the very summit.

We stand now at the foot of Fatum watching Claudius pick his way among the rocky path leaning heavily on the ironwood staff his father carved for him. Every fiber of my being cries out for someone to stop but I dare not give it voice. For as certain as Mount Fatum will crush his body, stopping him will crush his spirit.

How do you help someone that will be destroyed by being helped? If any can solve this conundrum, it is you, Enlightened Ones. I leave this message on the altar at the base of Fatum and trust the north winds to bring it to you safely.

Antonia

A Wonderful Opportunity

Daniel Solis — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 06:12:03 -0700

Hello Pilgrims,

My name is Shan T'kal, djinn to Her Fiery Majesty of the Celestial Forge, Lady Volcas. All smelters, smiths and miners once paid homage to their goddess, but Her power wanes through the eons. Metal is scarce and Fortune now smiles on the weapons of tooth, wood and glass.

Her influence weakened, the all-father cast out His daughter from the Indigo Realms along with Her divine descendants. Like sparks bursting from struck steel, Her children scattered across worlds. The trauma of mortality blasting away memories of their heritage. Mortality has not been kind to Volcas either. She ages quickly, in dire need of an heir to carry Her name.

I have made several inquiries, hiding in the mortal lands, searching for any of my god's children. I learned of a single child who had been sent at an early age to train at your temple. For this discovery, I paid a dear price.

This so-called "Dynasty" of mortals captured me in crude copper pot. They pour droplets into it slowly, waiting for my will to break. They want the rumored cache of precious iron, bronze, steel and numerous gems cast from the void with Lord Volcas. The lowly pigs would use these treasures to extend their borders from Realms to Temple and beyond. Lady Volcas will have none of this. She demands a proper divine heir take the inheritance.

Not all is lost. I write this letter in smoke, carried by the wind. There is still hope, hidden among your number. Born of fire, trained in air, a worthy successor to Her throne.

Come, claim your birthright.

Shan T'kal

Fluttering Menace: The Butterfly Conspiracy

Daniel Solis — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 13:24:03 -0700

Dear Pilgrims of the Flying Temple,

I've recently come across some shocking revelations that may shake the very foundations of entomology!

First, you should know that storms grow rampant and hungry in the vast blue skies between worlds. Should an unfortunate planet come across a migrating storm, it would surely be destroyed — That is, if it weren't for our intervention.

The Storm-Fighter Brigade ride dragons into the heart of those misty nebulae. We skim across the raining rivers, dodging bursts of lightning, eventually dispersing the storms through our dragon's breath and powerful wings.

I proudly count many decorated Storm-Fighters in my family, including my mother and father. Though I struggle with my dragon's lack of respect and have never faced a storm myself, I help the brigade by training as a science officer at the storm-fighter academy.

It is in my studies that I discovered an ancient saying that has been lost to today's scholars:

Beware the caterpillar's thread, it's silk unseen.
What may seem unrelated is all the more tangled.
Even a hurricane finds its birth in a butterfly's flapping wings.

My translation is rough and unpoetic, but its message is clear: Butterflies are the source of all storms' power.

All along, these diminutive creatures have arrogantly fluttered from flower to flower, churning up gusts in distant shores. "Surely," you must think, "this is ludicrous!"

But let it be known that many birds communicate through flamboyant displays of plumage. In the insect world, bees relay information through a language of buzzes and dance. I believe I've deciphered a similar secret butterfly code based wing-flapping. This code is used to send messages to wind spirits, though I still do not know the goals of this unholy alliance!

The butterflies haven't discovered that their plot is compromised. I would go to my superiors, but I fear my beliefs will surely have me laughed out of the academy and barred from the libraries.

I am attaching this letter to the leg of our strongest messenger dragonling. I hope it reaches you before any further storms are born.

Please, most wise and powerful followers of the Way of Ways, help me vanquish this fluttering menace!

Private Hugo Drakid
Storm-Fighter Brigade

The Other Half

Ryan Macklin — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 10:49:44 -0700

Do letter: The Other Half
By Ryan Macklin

[Heart + Knot + Tree]

To my honorable brethren,

It was not three turns of the sun ago that I was like you will be -- a pilgrim, flying from land to land, bringing harmony and aid to those who ask. Now the tables have turned, and I must ask for assistance.

When I came to this world, I answered a letter written by a young woman named Chunmei. She wrote to our glorious temple with great sorrow, asking why she was still on her little world when everyone else had already left it behind. As an orphan, my heart went out to her. I understand what it is like to be abandoned and alone, and I vowed to take her from her world to any place she desired. (My master snickered at my impetus, naturally.)

When we arrived, I of course found that the problem was not as simple or easy as I originally envisioned. Forgive me; I am now rambling and I apologize. I remember wishing, when I was on my own pilgrimage, that the letter writers would get to the point sooner in their letters. I'm impatient, and yet cursed with verbosity. Life is full of amusement.

Allow me to get back to the point. The woman, who is now my beloved, is a ghost. Her family and friends have been dead for many years now. They have been able to move on to their afterlives while she has been stuck here for several months before I arrived. It took some time, but I finally unlocked her problem, allowing her to freely leave this earthly realm.

You must understand that we spent a great deal of time together while I worked to free her of her bonds. In that time, we created another: we fell in love. There was a moment where she was free to move on, to be with her family and one with the spirits. She rejected it; the pull of our hearts was too strong for her to deny. I must say that selfish feelings within me were glad she did, and I happily ended my pilgrimage to stay with her.

These last few months have been truly amazing, and though having a lover you cannot touch presents yearnings I do not wish upon anyone else, our love is deeper than that I have ever seen or known because of it.

Alas, I fear I'm not getting to the point. Allow me to try to be blunt. This little world is dying, crumbling away. This started well before I came, but was slow before. We have perhaps three months before there is nothing left to stand on. This would not have been a serious problem for me in the past, but something truly frightening has revealed itself.

I can no longer fly.

It appears that I am as bound to this world as my beloved is.

Please help me, my brothers and sisters. I am afraid. I do not have the power over the winds and sky I once had, nor do I have power over my own heart.

Respective, humbly, and graciously,

Passionate Flower [The name of the former Pilgrim]

[The letter was shaped into an intricate origami dove and was found flying into a window in the Temple.]

Sailing the Sea of Grass

arkhamrefugee — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 14:02:23 -0700

Most Wise Monks of the Temple,

My name is Youngest Daughter Lavender and I live with my eldest son and his family on she shores of the Great Grass Sea in the village of Bloom. For as long as anyone can remember, my family has sailed the sea in our boats and fished the red poppies from the swells of grass with our nets. It is my family and all the families of my village who bundle up the poppies, the hyacinth, the lavender and all the flowers of the sea for those further inland to make medicine and perfumes with. And for generations, we have been proud to do so. But now we find ourselves and our way of life in danger.

For as long as my people have harvested the flowers from the sea, the Far-Sailors of Yi have come to Bloom. Sometimes they come in peace, sometimes in war but always they come to us in their red-sailed junks. They sometimes bring exotic plants from the Spice Groves far to the south or scented woods from Ashivat away in the utter east to trade with us for our poppies. Sometimes they simply take what they want and leave us to rebuild our shattered homes. For the last ten years, though, the Far-Sailors have taken to smuggling rare woods and spices into the Inland Empire through our village. Their newest leader, a handsome rake of a man named Shen Lo, hates the Inland Empire with a passion. So he raids their ports, loots and burns their ships and makes off with the treasures they hold. Were he not so kind to the smaller towns and villages on the outskirts of the Empire, like our beloved Bloom, we would long ago have hunted him down!

Of late, though, the Duke of Jung who is nominally our overlord, has taken to calling the Far-Sailors pirates and thieves. He has sent many soldiers to our home to “defend” us from the Far-Sailors and many of his servants to try to root out those who would help the same. His men are petty dictators and they are slowly killing our village with their demands. While we have little love for the Far-Sailors, we have even less for the Imperials. And I have a notion that the Duke has less desire to catch lawbreakers than he does to line his own pockets with the money from these valuable goods.

Two days ago, my granddaughter Mei overheard several of the soldiers talking. They plan on using Bloom as bait for Shen Lo and their plan is to burn our village to the ground in an effort to draw him and his men into a trap! Even if Shen Lo were not a friend to my home, I would not allow them to simply burn it as a means to furthering some distant lord’s ambition. But I am an old woman and so I cannot fight them as I might once have done. So now I call to you, the monks of the flying temple, in hopes that you can forestall this horrible event. When I am done writing this, I shall do as my mother taught me and tie it to the top of the mast on the first boat to leave our harbor in the morning with three poppies for luck and fortune. We have but three days left to us before Bloom burns. I pray that you come in time.

Fortune guide you, Monks of the Flying Temple!