Gloueb had not seen the skies of planet Gurx in many years. Though born here, in this very city of Dalennep, Gloueb had spent more than half of their lifetime so far working in space. Gurx didn’t feel like home anymore.

And now Gloueb was stuck here, along with the large percentage of the Strondos who had been working as astronauts, but had now been called back to their home planets. They were being treated like they were Nexvar, being put away until they were needed again. But unlike Nexvar, Gloueb wasn’t being put into suspended animation between jobs. They had a chance here to fill their time with all sorts of experiences on Gurx, but did they want to?

That’s what Gloueb was wondering as they looked out the window at Dalennep. Then, rubbing a tapestry, Gloueb activated lights woven into the fabric and turned into the room. They wondered what it meant that they didn’t like it here. It was comfortable at least. Anyone credited as working on the New Gurx project could stay at any of the city’s hotels, so Gloueb had taken up residence in the hotel nearest the spaceport, as though, they thought, staying close to it would ensure that the news that they could get back into space would reach them that little bit sooner. But why did they want to go back? There were innumerable fresh experiences on this planet, lots to do and see.

The problem was how slow it was here. The stars, even Ahan, sat so still. Sure, Gloueb knew that planets and stars all moved quite quickly. But compared to spaceship with a buloggo engine? Gurx was a standstill.

Gloueb turned to a tabletop terminal and switched on a connection to the Knowledge Base. For the first time in their lifetime, they looked up what it takes to become a registered Nexvar.

Wise Chargan sat and looked out the window of their mountaintop home. They did not spend as much time on Gurx as they once did, but the automatic units kept the home in perfect order. It was a comforting feeling to sit in a familiar chair and listen to audio updates from the Knowledge Base. Chargan could use any comfort they could get.

The audio updates were full of the latest news approved to be heard by the masses, but Chargan knew things that had not, and may never, make it into them. Worrying things.

A Rootfolk armada found lifeless, recently destroyed, within Strondo space. It was a mystery how a fleet of ships designed by their most frequent enemies had made it so close to Gurx without being spotted. It was a further mystery how they had been destroyed without a battle being noticed. And it was the most disturbing mystery of all that their destroyer remained unknown. The Rootfolk fleet had been technologically advanced, Chargan had seen it. More advanced than anything the Strondos possessed at this time. Finding them dead was the best outcome. Certainly better than it would have been to learn of them only when they attacked.

Who killed the Rootfolk fleet? Where were these killers now? What could they want? What could Strondovarian culture do to protect itself? The Wise had agreed to decrease unnecessary activity in space for the time being, to avoid attracting attention, but construction of New Gurx had to continue. It was unrealistic to believe they could avoid notice for long. And whose notice were they trying to avoid?

Chargan could, for now, only worry about potential answers.

Well, I’ve still been busy lately, but today was pretty relaxing. My first class of the day was cancelled, so I was able to get myself seven and a half hours of sleep, which is nice for a change. And furthermore, I didn’t do any schoolwork after school either, just taking a night to waste. I may regret that over the next couple weeks, but screw it, right?

I had to write a seven sentence story for a class this week. So here’s that:

Gary Ochterlony was an older man, the oldest who worked at the library. He was quiet, worked diligently, and on his lunch breaks liked to walk around the outside of the library. One day, on his way out, he caught a whiff of smoke and, worried that there might be a fire, he sniffed and searched, soon realizing it was coming from behind a bulletin board on a nearby wall. The board, he discovered, swung open easily enough, and behind it was a tiny model of a city, built into the wall, with one of its buildings on fire. Gary leaned close to the tiny fire, licked his thumb, and pressed it against the building, extinguishing the flame. Only then did he notice the tiny wail of tiny sirens, and the confused murmurs of tiny people moving about the roads in what, Gary now realized, was no ordinary model city. Slowly closing the board again, Gary spent the weekend assume he’d imagining the event, but when he got back to work and checked, the city was still there, even the burnt building being rebuilt, now with an addition: a gold-plated statue of Gary’s thumb.

Here’s a story:

Theodore Blintler didn’t even know he was being followed by robots. Sure, he heard a strange buzzing now and then, or the sound of clinking metal, but he had pretty bad eyesight, so he never noticed the seven robots that were about ten feet behind him everywhere he went. Theodore Blintler worked in a horse raincoat factory as a horse raincoat designer. Theodore had designed the most popular, best-selling horse raincoat of the last three decades. Theodoe was kind of famous in the horse raincoat industry. This is why the robots were following him. The owners of a failing cow raincoat factory had somehow come up with the money to build seven robots and had them follow Theodore Blintler around, hoping to copy his success for themselves. This all came to a head one day when Theodore was eating a terrible, terrible lunch in a diner across the street from the horse raincoat factory. The robots had been leaning against the door, pressing their ears against it, straining to hear any animal raincoat-related mutterings Theordore might emit, when the door collapsed inward and all seven of the robots tumbled into the diner with a crash. Theodore, startled by the noise, choked on a bit of burnt egg and died. The robots were embarassed and the cow raincoat factory went out of business. Nobody would ever know, but Theodore had been planning a shooting spree at his office with intent to kill dozens. Unfortunately, one of the people Theodore would have killed was a serial murderer who went on to kill dozens of other people. One of the victims of the serial killer had been building a bomb that he planned to blow up a school. The moral? Someone get some raincoats for the cows!

Anyway, there’s a story. Memorize it and tell it to your children.

In other news, I got an A-minus on a History essay and an A on a English essay this week. That is pretty different from the kind of marks I was getting at my previous attempt at school. This proves that procrastination is not gonna hurt me because, man, I been procratinatin’ all the live-long day with these essays. And now I don’t have to stop procrastinatin’! Hooray!

Joanne kept punching the giant spiders, but they just kept coming. Each one more gianter than the last except the seventeenth on, which was smaller than the one proceeding it by at least three feet. By the time the ninety-sixth giant spider was there Joanne had to look way up because it was over thirty feet tall. “It’s gonna be one of those days,” said Joanne, referring to how this was the seventh time she’d had to spend a day punching a horde of giant things. It was actually the first time it was giant spiders, though she didn’t clarify that to the onlookers. She’d punched giant rats, giant ants, giant lobsters. She was confident the giant spiders could be lumped into the same category without anyone questioning it. So Joanne spent another day punching giant things. When all the spiders had received the necessary amount of punching, she dusted off her hands and said “The things I do for money,” referring to how punching hordes of giant things was outside the normal bounds of what one was expected to do in her line of work. Joanne works as a museum tour guide. Anyway, she got paid and took her kids out to a pizza place for supper.

The End.

I guess, since I don’t really have any other news to speak of, I’ve got to talk about my finger again.

The healing is going well as far as I can tell. Yesterday I noticed that my body was starting to keep things, like my wallet and sunglasses or whatever, in my right coat pocket again without this resulting in my finger gong “Hey, don’t do that! I’m broken over here!” so I consider that progress. Pretty soon I will be back to my usual standard of things I do with that hand (writing, drawing, tying my effing shoes) and I will like that. I guess it will take a little longer for things specific to my middle finger, but I don’t know that many things I do with just that finger. I can’t really snap my fingers without it, I guess. Also… uh… Flipping people off… I guess?… and… uh… fingerbanging? … Um.

Anyway, I’ll try to shut up about my finger until the final checkup now.

So, it is International Women’s Day, the day when we are all encouraged to find a special gal and buy her chocolates and pretty bows for her hair. That’ll shut ’em up, right?

Wait, I’ve just received word that I completely misunderstand what International Women’s Day is about and I am, in fact, a horrible person. Go figure. Well, as I’ve said before I’m a nation with no female population*, so it can’t be that surprising that I don’t know what the people of Internation do. What excuse does the Republican party use?

Anyway, why not throw out a little story with a positive female role model, PDR? Okay PDR:

Sally Titan saw the bank robbers get into their van and start speeding away. “Idiots,” she said to herself. “Now I’m going to be late for my tutoring session with Mrs. O’Malley’s kids because I have to deal with this.” With that, the muscular hero leapt across the street, bounded off the wall of the bank, and propelled herself down the street after the van. Civilians saw her streaking through the air toward the getaway vehicle, but they would never believe their own eyes. Sally kept her existence as secret as she could because she wasn’t in it for the fame. Overtaking the van, she grabbed the roof and used her momentum to slam it downward, stopping it. She had the criminals tied to a telephone pole before the police even made it to the scene. The crooks couldn’t describe what had happened, but they also couldn’t shake the blame for the heist, so they all went to prison. And Sally made it to the tutoring session on time after all.

There. Happy ending and everything. That makes up for what I said about bows, right?

*Some would say that my vigilant separation of PDR and women is my most important contribution to Womankind. You’re welcome everybody.