1550 c/o Reynard Seifert

How Nostradamus Got His Groove Back

And Learned To Stop Verbally Abusing

His Wife For No Good Reason

I'm really glad I've just finished writing this almanac, thinks Nostradamus, stroking his beard. From the other room his wife asks, Do you want a sandwich? And he says, Shut up, woman, I'm trying to think!

Nostradamus gets up and walks over to his mirror and picks up his lice comb and combs the lice out of his beard. Beneath his beard he spots a huge, ripe pimple. Popping the pimple reminds Nostradamus of volcanic eruptions and this makes him smile with an inner, radiant light.

The earth will be destroyed in 2012, he thinks, I wish I could Google myself right now. He closes his eyes.

When he opens his eyes Nostradamus is a homeless man on the streets of Brooklyn, New York. He is holding an empty, unwashed can of baked beans with a few pennies inside. Shaking the can, he asks, Can you open your heart today? in English. That's weird, he thinks, I don't speak English.

It begins to rain. The rain extinguishes Nostradamus's inner, radiant light. It's raining, he says. Someone says, I know. A businessman gives him a $100 bill and says, Don't be an asshole. He thinks, What's going on here? I'm Nostra-fucking-damus!

Unfortunately for Nostradamus he actually screamed this last thought very loud, loud enough that a policeman comes to take him away to a place where they put people who claim to be Nostradamus. He asks the officer what year it is in French. The officer doesn't understand. I don't understand, goddammit, the officer says, you're speaking French.

At the place where they put people who claim to be Nostradamus the guards take Nostradamus's clothes off and hose him down with ice-cold water and laugh at his non-erect penis and shave off his beard and then give his clothes back and slap his ass. I just showered this morning, he says in English. That's not why we hosed you down, goddammit, they say, winking. He asks them what year it is in French and they all shake their heads and say, We don't understand you, goddammit, you're speaking French. He must be speaking French, they say to one another.

So the guards take him to the French consulate and he asks the clerk, What year is it? in French. The clerk says to the guards, Goddammit, he's speaking French! The clerk runs out and comes back with a translator. The translator is Middle Eastern. In French she says, It's 2012. Nostradamus cries, Sacrebleu! The translator slaps him and then backslaps him and then the translator says, Stop acting like a goddamn stereotype, Nostradamus. His beard turns white. He says, I don't understand how people can listen to the same songs all the time. I need some fucking variety, know what I'm saying? The guards say, I know. And also it's funny when people say 'Let's make it baby' because it sounds like they're saying 'Let's make a baby' but they aren't.

The guards bring him back to the place where they put people who claim to be Nostradamus and give him a nametag that says I THINK MY NAME IS NOSTRADAMUS BUT REALLY I'M JUST CRAZY SO DON'T LISTEN TO ANYTHING I SAY, OKAY? OKAY. Everyone else there is wearing the same nametag. They walk around a small, glass room bumping into one another saying, The earth will be destroyed in 2012. Over and over and again they say it, The earth will be destroyed in 2012, The earth will be destroyed in 2012, The earth will be destroyed in 2012. They say it so much it loses all meaning and becomes little more than a buzz, a low sort of hum that fills the whole place up with a lot of hot air. The roof of the place would float away if they didn't pump the hot air out with industrial air pumps. So they do that.

Now I know why people avoid me at parties, Nostradamus thinks, I'm such an asshole. He tells the guards in English, You will not see me alive at sunrise. And they say, Goddamit, that's what you always say. Every goddamn night. Every one of you.

Nostradamus unlaces his shoes. He does some crunches and pushups and writes a note saying, The earth will be fine. Don't worry. I was just starved for attention. I've wasted my life. I'm going to hang myself with my shoelaces now. And he does.

Opening his eyes he is back in the year 1550, standing in front of his mirror, lice comb in his hand. He licks his beard and says, Nostradamus-Nostradamus-Nostradamus, over and over again in the mirror, as fast as he possibly can, Nostradamus-Nostradamus-Nostradamus. His inner, radiant light returns with a tiny burst of gold and he stops doing that because it is pretty annoying after all.

He sits down at his desk and thinks about what he saw in the future. People must really like me if they claim to be me, he thinks, I must be really well liked, you know? I mean, why else would they like me so much unless they really liked me? I'm really glad I've just finished writing this almanac, thinks Nostradamus, stroking his beard. From the other room his wife asks, Do you want a sandwich? And he says, Actually, yeah, I'd love a sandwich. Thanks, babe.

1549 c/o Ani Smith

In the morning it will be 1549

If you wake up and the rebellion is over, maybe we shouldn't say a prayer. If you wake up and jump and yell, it may be the rebellion is long since done. If that happens to the girls in boots, maybe we shouldn't say we told them so.

There are faces in the spaces where before it was clear and washed when the rebellion which is now over was only then birthing. We are now banned. Them and you and us and the girls in their boots with their hair parted in halves. If you wake up now, you can put a stop to all this touching and feeling.

He is there. Back facing me. Body fragile. I look at it, at his back. Run fingernails up. Down. See evidence of pain where now there is none. Or little but not flaring. Not now, but before. I lightly touch this place no one else has touched for a while. I feel happy. I feel empty. That makes me feel happy.

In the morning it is morning. Not before I've etched nail paths into this body that isn't mine. I hate morning. Sunlight fills me up again. I am not happy. He's done with the touching. There's been too much touching. Pain may flare.

Pour us a drink, girls in boots. Don't say your prayers first. Just fill the glasses and we will empty them just to watch you fill them again. So that we don't wake up, now or ever and especially not when the rebellion was just beginning. Just lie here in protest together.

1548 c/o Sully Sanchez

Juan Diego

Juan Diego exists.
Juan Diego might exist.
Juan Diego should exist.
Juan Diego existed differently.
Juan Diego exists on a deerskin.
Juan Diego could not have existed.
Juan Diego existed, as research has proved.
Juan Diego does not exist but he is a miracle.
Juan Diego exists as two hands building a shrine.
Juan Diego exists but is carrying roses that do not.
Juan Diego existed but much later than we thought.
Juan Diego exists as the son of his youngest daughter.
Juan Diego exists because someone is calling his name.
Juan Diego is a mythical character and therefore he exists.
Juan Diego is a mythical character and therefore he does not exist.
Juan Diego exists but only on cold mornings, on hilltops.
Juan Diego exists because of a lady who doesn’t exist.
Juan Diego exists but his name is not Juan Diego.
Juan Diego exists as coarse fibres he has woven.
Juan Diego exists because of what he saw.
Juan Diego exists in an impossible way.
Juan Diego exists as a gentle dust.
Juan Diego exists as a nobody.
Juan Diego exists as an apron.
Juan Diego may have existed.
Juan Diego does not exist.
Juan Diego did not exist.
Juan Diego will exist.
Juan Diego existed.

1547 c/o Wes Schofield

Simple Words

Martynas Mažvydas wrote a book. Some other guy printed it. I don’t know his name.

The book Mr. Mažvydas wrote was the very first book printed in the Lithuanian language. It also happens to be the most prominent example of syntactical-intonational prosody we have today. Whatever that means.

It used to be a lot of work to print things. It involved plates. And presses. And little tiny metal letters placed on plates and set into presses where they were covered with ink and stamped against pieces of paper. Then it had to be taken apart, cleaned up, and all the little tiny letters re-arranged, and the whole process repeated again many times because that was only for the first page.

Or something like that. I’m not a doctor. Nor was I bothered to enter the thirteen keystrokes it would have taken to have the Google search engine elucidate me on the history of the printing press complete with color diagrams and a proper bibliography. It’s not that I wasn’t interested, but this is a fictional story so I’m okay with just making things up.

It was also some guy’s job to make the little tiny metal letters. His name was Betty and he was a smelter by trade. He poured molten iron into little tiny metal casts shaped like little tiny letters in order to form the little tiny metal letters. He made the little tiny metal casts too, a completely different process, but it’s pretty dull so I won’t get into it.

So thanks to Betty and a whole slew of people, most of whom have names more appropriate sounding for their chosen profession, we have this book, The Simple Words of Catechism, by Martynas Mažvydas.

And because there was this book, there is now this very short story, which although not completely bereft of effort, or certainly, I would guess anyways, considerably less effort than it took for the twenty-seven various individuals, who all together devoted approximately five hundred hours of their time, to make Martynas Mažvydas book available to the Lithuanian public.

However, I would be neglectful not to mention that this very short story was itself crafted upon a computer using a word processor, two inventions of technology which themselves were created over a period of many decades by countless teams of individuals, working at times independently and at other times in tandem, for a variety of different organizations, often in separate countries but not always, improving upon the work of their predecessors, until these instruments for creation finally reached the level of sophistication they are at today. So while it may be very simple for me to type this story out, giving it whatever font I desire from of a vast number of typographical options, fonts that in and of themselves were designed by some third party, then print numerous copies of this story to be handed out to family and friends, or otherwise distribute it widely over the internet where is can be ignored by millions of people, these things are possible only as a result of the various contributions of hundreds, if not thousands of people, the likelihood of which is that at least one and perhaps even a few share the name of Betty.

So while it might be said, whether it is completely inaccurate or not I cannot say, as I have already explained I’m not a doctor, that this very short piece of fiction based upon the real life creation of Martynas Mažvydas' book, The Simple Words of Catechism, is only now possible to due the efforts of the sum total of all the individuals previously mentioned as well as the compound efforts of numerous individuals I have neglected to mention, not out of malice or any particular feeling of ill will towards any of said people, simply because this is a story and not a grocery list.

Suffice to say nineteen of them were named Betty and each one holds a place in my heart.

1546 c/o P P Bloxham

Anne Aksew, burned at the stake

the devil’s tongue licks her feet. it is incredibly hot.

the devil has a really, really, really hot tongue. he’s a real piece of work, the devil. he’s really into it.

he licks all up her legs, between her legs, her stomach, hands, arms, up to her breasts. his mouth is all around her. he is eating her. melting fat, bubbling skin, carbonized bone, she is being chewed in the devil’s mouth.

she is pork. A beating heart, firing nerves, popping eyes and boiling organs. she asks for it to stop. it doesn’t.

this is exactly the sort of thing that gives the devil a boner. he keeps going.

there are tiny flakes of her on the wind.


She sitting in a chair in a meadow, long grass, the sky is purple, the wind is cold. She looks out over gently rolling hills. She says a very quiet prayer. She hopes the devil hasn’t swallowed her forever.

A man is walking, a mile away, he is shouting from time to time. It sounds like he is calling to Allah.

“Allah!” “Allah!” the poor man has lost his God in this meadow.

He climbs the gentle incline towards her. She watches him get closer, closer. He walks towards her chair.

“Hola.” he says when he gets close.

He is rough, sweaty, dirty, he smells. He looks very tired.

“Hello.” she says. “Do you speak English?”

“No.” he says. “Why, are you English? How did you get all of the way out to this horrible place?”

“You do speak English.” she says

“Were you on a ship? Have you seen Ana?”

“You’re speaking English!” she shouts

“No I am not! Where is my wife?” he says

“If you’re not speaking English then why can I understand you?” she asks

“Because you’re speaking Spanish!” he is annoyed now.

“I haven’t seen your wife” she says.

The Spaniard turns away, he starts back down the hill. “Ana!” he shouts. “Ana!”

She watches him go down the hill, calling for Ana.

“Hello.” a soft voice says. She feels a hand on her shoulder.

There is a blue man standing next to her.

“Namaste” he says.

The hand on her shoulder is glowing. It is starting to rain.

She looks at her shoulder. She looks into the man’s face. He gives her a gentle smile.

“I just burned at the stake.” she says.

“Uh oh.” the blue man says.

He makes a worried face. He turns silver. He grows long white hair.

He sits down and gazes out over the hills, brushing his hand over the tips of the grass.

There is a moment of silence.

“Are you ok?” the silver man asks apologetically.