Article: 178507 of talk.bizarre
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
From: doering@xrayspex.nlm.nih.gov (Larry Doering)
Subject: Duelling Authors:  A. A. Milne and Samuel R. Delany   (redux)
Message-ID: <1994Dec1.051345.28845@nlm.nih.gov>
Summary: yeah, yeah, I'll write something original later today, okay?
Sender: news@nlm.nih.gov
Organization: Zantop World Airways
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2]
Date: Thu, 1 Dec 94 05:13:45 GMT
Lines: 43
Status: O

    "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin.
    "That's the end of that one.  There are others."
    "About Pooh and Me?"
    "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you.  And Filament and Fireball,
Copperhead and Nightmare.  Don't you remember?"
    "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget."
    Smoke coiled past the tall windows.  The room was suddenly filled
with the stench of burning, and then just as suddenly it was gone.  I
shifted uneasily, tasting coffee, as Christopher Robin dug out his crusty
handkerchief, took off his rimless glasses, and scrubbed at the lenses
(jingle, jingle, jingle went the zippers on his black leather jacket;
the sleeve rode up and I saw the two loops of lensed chain around his
bony white wrist for a moment.)  I continued:
    "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump ----"
    "They didn't catch it, did they?"
    "No."
    "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain.  Did I catch it?"
    "Well, that comes into the story."
    Christopher Robin nodded.
    "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why
he likes having it told to him again and again.  Because then it's a real
story and not just remembering."
    His fist, clenched like a stone around Pooh's leg, cracked open,
revealing the gnawed cuticles on his grimy fingers.
    "That's just how _I_ feel," I said.
    Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg,
and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him.  Fear prickled one
side where my shirt (two middle buttons gone) bellied with a sudden breeze.
Silver gleamed; the chains on his scuffed engineer boot rattled, while his
left foot (the bare one) padded silently on the flagstones.  At the door he
turned and said,
    "Coming to see me have my bath?"
    Upstairs, a rumbling sounded, punctuated by three distinct THWUMPS,
the second much louder than either the first or third.
    "I might," I said.
    "I didn't hurt him when I shot him, did I?"
    "Not a bit."
    He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh ---
BUMP, BUMP, BUMP, going up the stairs behind him.  Outside, the sky was
the color of dark stone.

ljd
-- Ann Arbor, 12:30-1:10 am EST, March 26, 1993