50 x 50: The mini-sagas. Brian Aldiss
study my glass. ‘It’s Venetian. 1900 or 1910.’
‘My lover adores Venice.’
‘Have you ever read Ruskin?”
‘Dreadful decor they display here.’
‘Love your dres…’
‘God, is that the time?’
Ours was a meeting of minds.
A great naughty shapeless thing flew in from space. I rushed to the mighty Gloewer, Swordsman Unparalleled. He was eating a leisurely breakfast.
‘We need you, Gloewer! Kill! Kill!’
‘I’m eating, okay?’
‘But your mighty sword...’
‘The Spoon is mightier than the Sword,’ he said.
I awoke – another SF dream!
‘I can peck very hard,’ boasted the hen.
‘I’m a complex character,’ the fox whispered back.
‘But you’re kind – aren’t you?’ the hen asked nervously.
‘From Monday to Saturday, certainly – wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ the fox rolled on his back.
‘Oh, but today is—’
‘Sunday!’ the fox shrieked, pouncing.
A terrific explosion ripped the Louvre apart. Smoke covered half of Paris. Many masterpieces were destroyed in that act of terrorism.
WHO COULD PROFIT FROM THIS OBSCENE ATTACK? the editorials demanded.
A small boy ran off, trophy in hand. Above his bed now hangs the smile of the Mona Lisa.
Here in this remote monastery live men of God. The monks squat over their prayer sheets on the balcony overlooking the valley. Their prayers are heard Above. Occasionally, a monk will rise, lift his robe, and piss into the valley. The yellow stream falls, falls... faint cries are heard Below.
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