As in issues past, I once again briefly endeavor to discuss these literary morsels, here-in offered for your weekly delectation.

The Ranting

This week's ranting, "Roseville, She is Killing Me," is a finely crafted piece, meditating much upon the murderous nature of certain Detroit-suburban locales. I am reminded firmly of the Cluefull bored game much admired and enjoyed of human pupae. Was it Coronal MousseTard in the conservatory with the truck? Or Ms. Peacock in the library with heavy drink? Or Professor the Plum in the parlor with the attack of hearts? Or was it the municipality itself, just north of the Motown of Detroit, with the union of grinder and necktie in the late 20th Century? It is not for nothing that such is the fodder of the classic whodunit game, here, after a manner, re-cast, like so many Bewitched Darrins, to continue forward where elsewise we might only be able to choose to pass back.

This topic, manifold and circumlocutious, is aptly engaged and wrestled into submission by our fondest Luke Bruhns, a fascinating lad of some middle-twenty numbered years, late of Miami, Las Vegas, and this Great State itself. Possessed of much and varied skills and talents, Luke the Bruin is currently employed by the federal government in the role of washing the soiled textile skin coverings and killing dark colored persons in far away terribly dry-deserts. We continue to wish only the best and safest toward luke: May his dermis dampen with sweet cold waters, and return to these shores unperforated and in the briefest convenient interval.

The Fictional

Our Fictional Feature is part the first of a gripping tale of marital unrest by Ben Jamin Stroud, entitled "The Devil Leaves Mrs. Harbison." There is, of course, always the sadness at the disillusion of a relationship, but we find solace in saying unto our own selves "they are indeed only the human— what more might one expect?" Indeed, it is true. What with their infidelious, polyamorous humpmonkey tendings and shallow brain-pans, what really can humen and -women truly know of Love Eternal, which is Devotion, which is Desire (and thus, according to Chimp Buddah, must then also be Suffering), which is Privation and Loss? Sad to say, you grunt chimps are, by design, and impermanent and lossy sort, not capable of Anything Boundless, let alone Love Unbounded and Free. It thus stands to the reasonable that, upon the occasional, the edifices of your love should crumble and fall, not unlike the Mountains Rocky and the Rocks Gibralterial.

But when a supernatural deity of unknown and ever-expanding evil intent— one well conversant in the eternals of suffering and want— when even a He so Great and Terrible cannot "make a go of it"— well, suffice it to say, that indeed makes for a story that can rend the hearts and inspire the freeflow of salinious tears. It is a work of rare device, this fictional, and not to be missed— be sure to tune back in to us next week, for the thrilling conclusion.

Considering the Poetical Offering of this week, and the impetus for its crafting, I can only say that such a story of abandonment as Mr. Stroud's is indeed poignant and hearts shattering in the extreme.

The Poetical

Finally, the Poetical. In celebration of the nuptial convergence of our own David the Erik Nelson and his fair scrumpmate, Cara the Genial Spindler, I offer this poetical bauble, found among the legal documents of this fair State of Michigauma (specifically R. S. 1846, Chapter the 83, Section Numbered 6.) and arranged lovingly to commemorate their most blessed eventuality. Mazel Tazel, dearest David!

That is all. Please, go forth, and find in the reading of these fair nibblets much of the joy I find in presenting them.