Henri had never seen such a large ship. Three huge masts, plus the pointy thing at the front and the mast at the back for the flag, it dwarfed every other ship in the port of Saint-Pierre.
Of course, the number of times that Henri had been near the port could be counted on the fingers of a single hand. He had spent almost the entirety of his nineteen years on a manioc plantation on the lower slopes of Mont Pelée, the domain of his seigneur, Guillaume Fauchon.
Elizabeth is quite content to remain a pampered palace pet in the court of Brobdingnag, where she and Gulliver are protected and provided with every material need and comfort. Gulliver, however, is frustrated by their lack of autonomy, and as a Man of the Enlightenment he resents humoring the court’s conceits and superstitions.
After surviving many perils, Gulliver is more than ready to get it on with his fiancée, but Elizabeth somehow imports 1950s morality into this 17th-century satire, and she insists they be married before surrendering to Gulliver’s ardor.
So I finally cracked and wrote a political size-fantasy story. This one has death, destruction, hard vore, scat, and more catharsis than we’re ever likely to see from our actual political system. Felt good to write it, though.
It was a Sunday morning, just like Pearl Harbor. I was having a smoke before the start of my shift at the Washington Monument. I had that job since they finally reopened after the renovations. Of course it’s closed again like all the rest. I suppose I should be looking for another job, but I just don’t see the point.
I was on the observation floor when it first hit. It wasn’t very long, less than two seconds. A sharp jolt shook the Monument, and I felt it worst on top. I didn’t have time to worry about the Monument falling down, and afterward I spent several minutes just holding a railing and convincing myself that it was over and that I would be okay. I was mistaken on both points.