Editing News

Now that we've sent our edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets and A Lover's Complaint to be officially registered, and that our work on editing Oscar Wilde's Salomé (the original French edition, and a new translation in English by yours truly - the introduction is being written by Cousin Editor-in-chief) is nearing completion, we've made a discovery: we love editing the books that we loved reading.

We're still working on our own stories or works, but it's properly exhilarating and possibly addictive to go back to the original texts, edit and dust them off (or even make discoveries), and then share them with you, dear Readers.

The day we had the idea to publish our favourite works, we came up with this list:

William Shakespeare: Sonnets - Much Ado About Nothing

Oscar Wilde: Salomé (we decided to translate it into proper English when we read how it's been treated by Douglas)

Jane Austen: Sense and Sensibility

Jean Racine: Phèdre

Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol

We have now added:

The Forme of Cury

Edmond Rostand: Cyrano de Bergerac (a request from my aunt)

Even if it was a lot of work, editing Shakespeare gave us access to fonts that can mimic the ligatures used in the early years of printing.

Last night, in order to do something soothing after dealing with the infuriating banker, we had a look at the first edition of Racine's Phèdre et Hippolyte, and we discovered that he wrote an introduction, and that the text of the royal privilege allowing him to print the play was printed there, as well.

We're not planning to make a facsimile of it, but we started thinking that it'd be different, unusual, original to publish a version of the text as it was first printed. Perhaps it's quite a niche, but we really think it could be a different kind of edition.

De is plotting more short stories (focussing on friendship this time).

Chris is still formatting her PhD.

I've got two Muff&Sherly stories ready to be edited (and the next novel is whispering in my ear). I've been thinking about my Sordid Fairy Tales, and my Victorian spy plot, too.

We're quite busy.

Now, if only we could find a banker with a brain and get this e-bookstore started... 

PS: if there are books that you'd like us to edit, you're more than welcome to make suggestions.

The Tale of the Inconsiderate Neighbour and His Downfall

Once upon a time, a widow, whose family had come from the kingdom of Ermani, settled with her daughters in the south of the Alli region. She thought that life would be nice there, but natives always reminded her that she wasn’t from “around here”, and they never showed her any respect.

The widow was sad, but she didn’t complain.

Her daughters were like her… except one. One of her daughters had left to work at the King’s court, and she’d come to hate the natives’ village mentality.

In the area around the widow’s house, there were several families from the alien kingdom of Denalow. Since Allians and Denalows had often been invading each other’s territories, that wasn’t such a surprise. What was a disappointing fact was that the Denalow people living in the village were more welcome than the widow (and just after a few months, even the widow admitted sometimes that the natives treated her poorly because she was a woman who’d lost her husband and she had no son).

The other daughters were as meek as their mother, but the daughter who spent most of her time away was not.

One afternoon, as she was visiting her mother, the non-compliant daughter heard an awful sound coming from outside; it sounded as if a thousand pans were banged together whilst ducks and geese were being slaughtered in the most inhuman ways. It was atrocious.

She went out to investigate, and she was the only one to do so because all the villagers but her and her mother, who didn’t want to make a fuss, appeared to be far away, working in the fields.

As she walked towards the sound, the daughter realized that the noise was coming from the house on the corner of their street. She’d never been curious about (or even just interested in) the neighbours, and so she had to check the name on the front door: Ronal Denas. Ronal was a name that most tribes had adopted, but the surname was probably from Denalow; she didn’t mind, because she had no grudge against aliens, and she’d learnt to speak their language. In consequence, she could go see that man and ask him to stop attempting to play the trumpet under the archway between his house and his barn, for that was what he was doing.

She turned the corner, the sound getting louder and more painful. In the courtyard, she could see an old man, and she waved at him to come to the street, which he did.

‘Could you please ask whoever’s making that racket to stop?’ she asked politely.

He waved towards the archway and grumbled, ‘That’s Ronal playin’. Go see ‘im. None o’ me business.’

She was disappointed in his reaction, but she wasn’t deterred. With one look at the native man, wondering if he was deaf, she walked towards the catastrophic amateur musician. In the courtyard, a Denalow horse, one completely unlike the horses that the natives had, was saddled in the Denalow fashion.

She walked to the owner of the house and had to manage to catch his attention: he was engrossed by his feeble stabs at music, and he was probably as hard of hearing as the native man who was working for him.

She saluted him and asked him as politely as possible to stop that awful noise. She explained that the archway carried the sound in such a way that it was unbearable.

The way he acted made her think that he had trouble understanding her; and therefore, she repeated everything in his own language. He still looked somewhat lost; thinking that he might be from a different Denalow tribe, she asked him where he was from exactly in order to adapt her vocabulary and make him understand that his awful racket was excruciatingly painful to hear.

Yet… in spite of his unmistakable Denalow accent and oh-so-particular horse, he told her that he was a native. Right then and there she realized what she was seeing in his eyes: contempt for an unmarried girl who wasn’t worthy of his time.

‘All right. Whatever,’ she said coldly. ‘Just don’t wake up the dead with your music. Thanks beforehand!’

And with those words, she left. On her way out, she checked the tribal symbols on the horse’s saddle, and they were definitely from Denalow.

The daughter had been cursed with very good ears (and the acoustics was on her side, carrying Ronal and his local friend’s voices), and she heard the following exchange.

‘Do you know the lass who just left?’ Ronal inquired.

‘Nope. What did she want?’ the native man said.

‘She ordered me to stop playing my beloved trumpet,’ Ronal exaggerated.

‘The nerve o’ that bitch! She’s probably from the other side of the village. Well, ya can play all ya wan’, as loud as ya wan’; t’is yar ‘ouse and no bitch is gonna tell ya what ta do!’ the other man spat.

‘You’re right!’ Ronal exclaimed, obviously delighted with his friend’s display of male solidarity.

The daughter hurried to her mother’s property and she hid behind the garden wall; she wanted to listen to the rest of their chat, without being seen. She realized that she’d been lucky because, she heard Ronal, on the road, calling her ‘Oi, Missy!’ and whistling to call her like a dog.

She was properly furious… and she knew the local laws. She stayed hidden until Ronal headed home, and she didn’t mention the incident to her scared siblings or to her mother.

The next time she visited, she brought a pigeon (one of the birds all citizens were allowed and encouraged to borrow from the castles in order to send vital messages).

The instant Ronal started his little fun with the trumpet, she tied a note to the bird and freed it to fly home… to the soldiers of the local lord, just on the other side of the hill. It took the bird five minutes to reach its owner; the soldiers galloped to the location mentioned on her anonymous message in just five minutes after being given the message.

The soldiers made it clear to Ronal that they had nothing against alien residents – as long as the local laws were respected. Ronal was severely chastised for playing so badly and in such an inappropriate location.

‘Who told you?’ Ronal spat. ‘Was it the young bitch? I’ll make her pay!’

‘Wait a minute! We don’t know who told us, and it’s irrelevant! We could hear your infernal racket the moment we passed the hill. I don’t know how you do things in your tribe, and seriously, mate, I don’t care. All I know is that we have laws – laws that the local constable explained, the way he does for all new residents since it’s his duty – and no one’s above the Law; that means you, too!’ the sergeant barked. ‘I’m going to give you a warning this time, but if we hear from you again, you’ll have to pay a fine, and we’ll take you to gaol. Clear?’

Ronal nodded, but he was furious, and he was sure that he knew who’d sent the incriminating message. He swore to get revenge.

The sergeant was no fool; he knew that Ronal was about to do something foolish. He left with his men, but he stopped down the road when he could no longer see Ronal’s house.

He looked at his men and said, ‘Half of you, keep riding home; the others, dismount, tie your horses to trees and follow me in silence.’

When they turned the corner of the street that led to the widow’s house, they saw Ronal, armed with a log; he was yelling at the widow and her daughter. Ronal broke a flower-pot that was next to the gate.

The sergeant and his men arrested Ronal.

With just one look at the daughter, the sergeant knew what she’d done to protect her family. He smiled and winked before leaving; she smiled back and nodded.

Wherever you live, wherever you’re from, being decent and nice to your neighbours is the only thing that guarantees that you’re not going to behave like a plonker raised in a barn. Keep in mind that you’re not alone in this world, and without stooping to spying on one another, living in a way that takes into account the people around you is the only thing that’ll make you deserve to be called civilized.

The Tale of the Warmongering Boy

Once upon a time, there was a boy who insinuated himself into a town guild. It wasn’t because he was interested in the activities of that particular group, but because he was planning to make himself look good and to profit from the prestige of the guild – and make fun of a few guildsmen as well.

The boy decided to pretend that he was terribly cute and charming; his strategy was to insist on those fake aspects of his personality.

For months, he worked diligently, and his act, combined with a fake exotic accent to ingratiate himself with the head of the guild, worked so well that he was soon welcome to all guild activities.

Yet, there was one member of the guild who’d always found the boy’s accent and behaviour to be suspicious.

One day, during a meeting, the member of the guild was disagreeing with the current politics of their trade, and he was pointing out that he didn’t think they were making the right choice, but he’d follow the decision of the guild.

That was when he heard the boy hiss that he should keep his words to himself because his point of view was useless.

He swirled towards the boy and growled, ‘What did you just say?’

‘Nuttin’, m’lord!’ the boy answered quickly, flustered.

‘How strange! I was under the impression that you wished me to remain silent on the topic,’ the guildsman pointed out.

The boy knew that he was trapped, and his only hope was to attack the man who could show the entire guild how petty and vain he was. He rushed to the side of the head of the guild and willed fake tears to his eyes as he mumbled, ‘Puhliz, m’lord! I was jus’ sayin’ tha’ the guildsman ough’ to tell us more on the topic. Tha’s all yar ‘ighness! I swear!’

The head of the guild looked at the guildsman and shrugged.

The guildsman turned to the boy and said, ‘All right, I’m willing to accept that you didn’t mean that. If you’ve got something to say, speak up and be clear.’

Then, the boy made a dire mistake; in his blind wish to turn the other guildsmen against the trader who was daring to call his shitehawk bluff, he went too far by using standard bullying technique: he tried to turn himself into the victim.

The boy started whimpering and pretended to cry as he wailed, ‘’Onest to Gawd, m’lord! Now it’s yous that’s picking on me because I’m so small, and I ‘asn’t ‘ad the good education that yous ‘ad. So yous’re picking on poor lil’ me. T’is unfair!’

By now, the guildsman had lost all respect for the boy, and he was ready to have him flayed for trying to make him look like a fool when all he’d done was defend himself.

‘And pray, boy! When did I pick on you?’ the guildsman inquired, his anger boiling dangerously up.

‘Right now! You said that I’m stupid!’ the boy shouted. ‘I never deserved tha’! Am a nic’ boy!’

Since all the other traders were silent, and not offering a word, for either side, the guildsman made a decision: he’d read the riot act to the boy.

‘Stop it!’ the guildsman yelled. ‘Even if I were to grant you that you did mean something different when I asked you to explain yourself, it would not change the fact that you’re trying to make me look bad, on purpose, in order to have the others say “Oh, that poor child! That adult is being so mean to him!”, but I can see through your sham. First, you should stop using that idiotic fake accent of yours! It’s childish; and sometimes, you stop using it, which shows that it’s not something natural to you. Then, I can tell a bully when I see one, and right now, you’re just playing the victim card. All bullies do that because most people are going to react to the last thing that was said, and they won’t look too far – or even stop to think!’

‘Bloody bastard! You’re a nuisance, and you should really shut your trap!’ the boy hissed.

The guildsman looked triumphantly at his fellows and said, ‘See! The boy is a bully. Now, it’s up to you all to make up your minds about him.’

The guildsman settled comfortably in his chair, whilst the boys looked daggers at him.

The moral of this story is that if you allow bullying boys to grow up into adults who still have the same mentality, they’ll end up being whingeing wankers of a variety that can start wars by twisting facts.

Think about it.

The Tale of the Other Bunny-Breeding Girl

Once upon a time, in a completely different kingdom, there was a girl who had many bunnies (in fact, she had so many bunnies that sometimes her house looked as if the floor were covered with soft fur).

She loved them all, and she could have kept them in her house, but one day, one of her friends encouraged her to show them to the villagers, and the girl opened her door and built special pens for the bunnies. Since she wasn’t doing this for gold, she placed a board near the bunnies that read “Free to good homes”.

The friend who had encouraged her to do this mentioned the bunnies to her other friends, and people started coming to see the bunnies.

Sometimes, the girl made a few mistakes, and there was a tiny knot in the fur of bunnies that had been put up for adoption, but it seldom happened, and the girl learnt better than to rush things.

In the first years, the girl had regular visitors who came to chat with her a bit before they headed home with a new bunny to pet and love, but things changed as more people offered bunnies-for-free and the activity became more usual, so to speak.

Bunnies-for-free became so common that the girl found herself with a lot of adopted bunnies, but they were almost all taken by people who didn’t even wait for her to show up and say “Hello!”. They walked by, took bunnies and left.

The girl could see that the bunnies were being taken (and loved, because she’d heard stories of breeders of bunnies-for-free who had to face criticism for offering bunnies in poor health, but not hers), but apart from a faithful tiny group of people, she no longer saw anyone.

Years and years after she started offering bunnies, and after she travelled to meet other bunny breeders who gave her tips to improve her work, the girl decided to try something new, and under the board that offered her bunnies, she added a piece of parchment that read: “Dear Visitor, why not wait for me to just chat a bit or leave me an address to contact you? I’d like some feedback on my bunnies. See you soon!”.

The piece of parchment was long gone with the wind when the girl decided that the silence hurt too much. She dearly loved the people who stopped by her house before they picked up a bunny, but these were a tiny fraction of the people who enjoyed the company of her bunnies.

It hurt.

It hurt, whilst it was supposed to be fun.

It hurt so much that the girl decided that it was time to change things for good.

She told her faithful visitors that her bunnies would be kept in a different place from now on, and that all they had to do to have one for free was to come see her and she’d take them to the new pens. She also warned them that the new bunnies were of slightly different colours.

On the board near the old pens, she added another piece of parchment that read: “Enjoy the bunnies; they’re the last ones I’m putting here. Thank you, and goodbye.”.

Then, it started…

First she found letters pinned under her message asking her to not stop breeding bunnies.

Then…

Then, at last, some of the people who’d been visiting the pens and taking the bunnies over the past years waited for her to show up when she fed the remaining bunnies.

The first one said, ‘I know I cannot force you to go on doing this, but it’d be awesome if you did keep doing it. Your bunnies are cute beasts, and I like them a lot.’

The girl was so utterly flabbergasted that she was properly stunned when she answered, ‘Ta! And sorry, but I can’t go on.’ Then she fed the last bunnies, and when she turned around, the visitor had already left.

There were a few more visitors like that. Always people who’d been taking bunnies for years and had never said a word until then.

Then, there was that visitor who said, ‘I’ve been getting bunnies from your pens for years, and I’m so sad to see that you’re going to stop breeding bunnies.’

By then, the girl was beyond sadness and frustration. She looked at that visitor and yelled, ‘If you liked them so much, couldn’t you bloody let me know once in all those years?! I’ve never seen you before. Where were you when I had no one to talk to? It’s too late now. You broke my heart!’

The visitor looked at the bunny-breeder and fled, thinking that she’d become mad, or that she thought she was important whilst she was just breeding bunnies-for-free, or that she was being unfair because she did see that the bunnies were being taken and that should have been bloody enough for that girl.

The visitor never understood. Neither did the others since they’d ignored the first plea for more communication.

The girl made sure that the first bunnies were all taken eventually, and she started breeding a new species of bunnies, and she was damn proud – not because she’d come up with a new species that she hoped her faithful followers would like, no (she was quite lucid on that head). No, she was proud for not hitting the strangers who asked her to go on breeding bunnies-for-free once she’d decided to stop doing that; she really wanted to, but she refrained from doing it… That, and she was busy chatting with the visitors of her new pens.

The Tale of the Bunny-Breeding Girl

Once upon a time, in a village in the North, a young girl was fending for herself.

She was all alone and living in a dilapidated cottage that was draughty in winter and damp and unpleasant in the summer.

The villagers paid no heed to her, and they didn’t help her because they all considered that, as an adult, she had to find a way to make a living.

She liked to walk, and one day, in the late spring, she found young bunnies that had recently been orphaned. She took them with her and brought the little ones to her home.

The young girl found a good place for the little ones, and she gave them good food, and she brushed them with care (they all had very long hair).

The bunnies were either white or grey, and they were very, very friendly, and incredibly cute. They somehow behaved like kittens. They followed their saviour everywhere and grew to be unusual pets.

In the winter, it was a bit difficult for the young girl to find enough food for her and her bunnies. At one point, she asked a few villagers if they wanted to adopt a few of her pets, but they laughed at her, saying that she was silly to care for balls of fur, and that she’d better eat them. The young girl was horrified, and she kept taking care of her extraordinary bunnies.

The following year, several things happened that changed her life forever.

First, her bunnies had baby bunnies, who were even cuter and tamer and more affectionate than their parents, and it meant that she had to try to find people to take care of them.

In consequence, she walked to the closest town with a bunny on each shoulder and one in her arms.

As it happened, one of the Royal Princesses of the realm, the favourite daughter of the King, was in that town, and from her carriage, the young Princess immediately spotted the young girl.

The Princess loved bunnies, and the ones who were with the young girl were so adorable that the Princess adopted the three instantly, which quite relieved the young girl.

The Princess didn’t buy the bunnies, per se, but she gave the young girl enough gold to feed herself and the remaining bunnies for a few years.

The Princess invited the young girl in her carriage and drove her back to the cottage, where the Princess was introduced to the other bunnies.

The animals felt that the new human being on their territory was very good and profoundly kind, and they welcomed the Princess warmly.

The Princess’s chaperone pointed out that they had to head back to the capital, but she hinted that the King probably wouldn’t object to other visits. The Princess and the young girl, when they bade each other goodbye, knew that they’d meet again.

The young girl was relieved to be able to care for her bunnies and to no longer have to worry about the immediate future.

Once she was back to the capital, the Princess gave one of the bunnies to her mother and another to her best friend. When she saw that her youngest sister was sad to not have a fluffy, affectionate bunny, the Princess gave her the third one.

The other Royal children longed for such bunnies, and since the King saw that his favourite daughter felt terrible for not thinking of providing bunnies to all her siblings, he sent a young knight to go fetch more bunnies from the young girl.

The knight was very efficient. He was so efficient that the King allowed him to go back to the North immediately to help the young girl restore her cottage.

From then on, the knight would always be found with the young girl.

When the courtesans saw how well-behaved and nice the bunnies were, most of them wished to have one. For a few of them, it was a fad, but for most, it was a real love for the charming creatures that came to their hearts or that came back to them after years secluded in the capital, away from the country and its marvels.

The courtesans sent envoys to the young girl, who started allowing her bunnies to breed freely in order to be able to have enough bunnies for those who wanted them.

The courtesans all gave fair compensation, and the young girl felt that she could marry her knight without being ashamed of her situation in life. The King, the Queen, and all their children (and all the bunnies) came to the wedding, which took place in the tiny church of the village.

By then, most of the villagers were trying to be friends with the young girl, but she kept to herself, and her husband could make sure that no one would bother them.

In the following years, the entire realm, and the neighbouring ones, discovered the young girl’s bunnies, and they all wished to have some.

Breeding couples even had to be sent abroad, and each new generation was nicer than the one before.

Now that the young girl was as rich as the richest Duchess of the realm (and that the King was considering making her an actual Duchess for contributing to the realm’s economy and renown), the villagers were sorry that they hadn’t been nicer to her in the past. By then, most of them ignored their feelings, a few were even a bit happy for her, but a small minority was outright jealous.

The jealous ones turned bitter. They said that the young girl’s bunnies were nasty creatures that should be ignored. A few even circulated recipes to cook the poor creatures (this remained only a threat and was never done to any of the bunnies).

The jealous villagers, as well as the people who didn’t know the young girl but were jealous of her good fortune, had only sour words and ill thoughts for all her achievements.

The young girl had a nice life, a good companion, good friends in the Royal family and abroad; her bunnies were loved, which was all she wanted, and she could take care of her bunnies in her nicely restored cottage. Life was good for her, at last.

Years went by, but the young girl’s reputation as one of the best bunny-breeders of her generation was still strong.

She was still going for walks into the woods, and one day, she found orphaned black bunnies, and she rescued them. The admirers of her white and grey bunnies encouraged her to breed the black ones, and she agreed to give it a try, even though they were rather different.

Even before she delivered the first ones to the world, all the jealous people started spewing bile, saying that she’d never be able to repeat the so-called (in their mind) miracle that she’d made years before. Their words were hideous and unkind: because they were incapable of doing what she’d done, but they wanted to believe that they could all do the same overnight.

The jealous ones could keep dreaming because they didn’t have an ounce of the young girl’s talent for loving and breeding her bunnies, and even in a millennium, they’d never be able to come up with what she’d managed to do all alone.

The young girl was about to give black bunnies to the world, and they’d be different, but they’d come with her love and skills, which guaranteed that they’d be awesome little creatures worth knowing.

The Tale of the Broken Bell

Once upon a time, there was a girl living in a small cottage in the shadows of the big castle.

Her neighbours didn’t get to see her much, and she mostly kept to herself. Most of her life was about work, which had her going away from her home at odd hours.

She didn’t mind, because that was her life, and there was nothing she could do to change anything in it.

Mostly, the girl was happy to live near the castle and near the kind of activity generated around it. She wasn’t living in the biggest town around, but there were many nice things around: all sorts of arts, interesting shops and places where to find books, which were always good friends to the girl.

She knew that a few of her neighbours found her anomalous for being alone (she’d been told several times that her life would be happier with a man by her side, but she knew that they were all wrong). She kept to herself and lived one day after the other.

One day, everything changed.

The new Intendant decided to visit the people that he’d have to administer in the area that the local Lord had given him to take care of.

When he reached the girl’s house, he tried to ring the bell by the door, only to realize that the bell was mute. The Intendant was surprised, and he had a closer look at the bell, which was how he realized that the clapper was missing; he thought that either the girl had taken it off or that some child had stolen it to play a trick.

Since he could hear some noise inside, the Intendant knocked on the door, and the girl answered it immediately.

From her reaction when he told her about the bell, the Intendant knew that she wasn’t the one who’d made the bell mute. Since the other bells on the street were untouched, the Intendant wondered if someone had wished to play a nasty trick on the girl, but then he noticed the pot of medicinal herb just below the bell, and he found the broken clapper in it.

The Intendant was relieved that this was just an incident, and he promised the girl to bring her a shiny new bell in a few days, for which she thanked him.

Before leaving, he asked her if her friends hadn’t warned her about the bell. She declared that no one had said anything; the Intendant then realized that he, himself, knocked on his friends’ doors, he didn’t use the loud, impersonal bells that usually announced strangers or deliveries.

The Intendant told the girl that they’d discuss more about his plans for the area when he came back, and he bade her goodbye.

Behind her window, the girl made sure that the Intendant was gone, and she started to cry in earnest.

Without him, she’d never have known that there was a problem with her antique bell, but she’d never admit it to anyone because the truth was just too depressing.

No one ever came to her door.

The Tale of the Greedy Baron

Once upon a time, there was a greedy Baron who wanted to make a lot of profit (even though he was already very rich).

In the pretty town, there was an old store that had been there for decades and that everybody loved. It was a very big place, and it was like a magic place, because whatever you needed, the store had it (and if they didn’t have it, they knew where to order it, and the employees helped you with a smile).

It was a very well-located store, and the Baron and his friends wanted to have access to the spot in order to be able to sell their own commodities.

Since the Baron and his friends didn’t care about the store and its employees and its patrons and its long tradition in town, they sent someone to make an offer to the rightful owner of the store.

Was the owner greedy, too? Was he tired? Was he tricked?

The story doesn’t say, but the Baron’s man bought the store and promised to keep everything as it had always been.

Over the next few months, the new owner, the Baron and his friends lulled everybody into believing that nothing had, indeed, changed.

Then, one day, the new owner made a public statement – an apology, really – in which he admitted that he hadn’t taken good care of the buildings and they were now very unsafe, and the store had to be closed for a bit of time… Just until the necessary works were finished, really, and then the store would open again, as beautiful as it was on its original opening day.

Massive sales were planned, and the employees were offered the possibility to retire early or to be given work in the other places owned by the new owner, the Baron and his friends (that was true for all the employees – except the ones who didn’t have permanent contracts and who were thrown out to the wolves in the woods).

The patrons, in shock, watched as their beloved store closed its doors. A few believed the new owner, but others felt the change and they just knew…

Years have gone by now.

Half of the store as been sold to the Baron, who shared it equally between his slaves and his friends.

Now, that particular half of the store is a skeleton that makes all the patrons and town-dwellers think of the good old times.

The Baron must be quietly laughing as the second half of the store is waiting to be recycled into more portions that he can negotiate and sell for very high prices.

What makes this a sordid tale is that the recycling plans officially declare that no place should be kept in one state forever, and things must evolve in a town (and after all, there are other stores in town… but none like the one that was killed for greed). Such a declaration would be right if the change hadn’t been ordered out of pure voracity.

On my way to work, I walk by the old store and its ghosts, and I always hear former patrons comment to friends on the closing, on the killing (for that place had a soul).

For greed, a place that was working perfectly well has been annihilated and the people in town are left running to several stores in order to try to find what they’d have found in one place before – and the employees of the other stores were all trained in goals and constantly have toothaches that prevent them from ever being agreeable.

Things do change, but sometimes greedy people hasten the demise of perfectly good things for no valid reasons (because the Baron shall not take his money with him when he dies).

The old store shall always be missed, and the old patrons will never go line the Baron’s pockets with their money. Mind you, there might be something karmic in that, and I’m almost tempted to throw a Voodoo doll in the mix – it can’t hurt, right?