Oh, Royal We

January 2016 | Poetry/Shortfic

So you laughed and called me king,
And I laughed and called you queen.
"Queen of the fallen wings!",
You'd joked, and asked me where I'd been.

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On Things That Could Kill You

November 2015 | Musings

In 2012, the most recent year for which statistics are available, France’s Institut national de la santé et de la recherche médicale (Inserm) reported a total of 558 300 deaths in a population of 65 241 000, as estimated by the Institut national de la statistique et des études économiques (Insee) for that same year; in other terms, a mortality rate of 0.86%. In Canada, 242 074 lives were lost in 2011 (Statistics Canada) from a census population of 33 476 688 (Statistics Canada) for a mortality rate of 0.72%. Finally, the United States’ Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) give us a total of 2 596 993 deaths in 2013, for a population 316 148 990 on July 4th, 2013 (U.S. Census Bureau) and thus a mortality rate of 0.82%. In general, you’re just not very likely to die in the developed world – in fact, statistically speaking, you would need to live over 116 years in France, almost 139 years in Canada, and almost 122 years in the U.S. for your chance of death to hit 100% (albeit erroneously assuming constant mortality rates and populations above). [More]

19 Oct. 2015

October 2015 | Poetry/Shortfic

Goodnight cold prince,
Emperor of the frozen wastelands;
Alas, we knew you all too well

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I-V

October 2014 | Poetry/Shortfic

I

Words are/overrated;
It’s in (un)comfortable silence(s)
That magic lies.

The art of poetry/is thus
Frustratingly paradoxical.

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Desert Island Albums

February 2014 | Musings

Yeah, it’s a classic. What albums would you have if you were to be stranded on a sandbar with only a palm tree for company in the middle of the ocean? Essentially it’s just a way to make you list your favourite albums, but what I especially like about the desert island hypothesis is that it actually does give your choices an interesting set of criteria. Because what really makes a desert island album? [More]

Prologue: The Storyteller

August 2013 | Nislarìn

Old Gorìn, they called him, or otherwise Hìnëlstara: the Storyteller. No one knew when he first arrived in Tëras – even the Elders spoke of him as an eternal and constant presence in the town. The parents may have remembered his hair being closer to grey than the pure white it was now, but for the children he had always been there, unchanged. His mid-length locks seemed to shine with the same clear brightness as his neatly kept goatee; a symbol of lively strength amidst the creases age had carved into his face. His well-worn staff, carved from a twisted and knotted oak branch, was sometimes a walking stick, sometimes an argumentative device, and often a prop for his tales. The children were drawn to him, and gathered around in the market square as the adults went about their business. Even the older ones, entering and racing through their rebellious teenage years, could not resist the enchanting attraction of his stories. They would sit close and give him their full attention, as they did today, and he would soon begin, as he did today... [More]

© 2015 Pierre Massé