I don't think there'll be much action on this blog for a while.

Unfortunately, I will have to stop 'Kill the President' in its current form. Thank you, nthmtnhoney for all your support, and members of Kalliope for entering into the spirit of the game. My thanks, too, to previous SoKs, madhatter and veebeep.

I hope to continue the poem, but in a different form. The form that I chose before was one that required interactivity with the reader, and unfortunately it's become obvious that I have failed to inspire a level of interactivity that would stimulate the addition of further 'bacterioids' ... clues and so on. That failure had a snowballing effect, as by the rules of engagement I was required to continue writing in a kind of void, forcing even more stanzas to be created without bacterioids and thus lessening the interest even further. It was an experiment, and I accept that it didn't succeed. Maybe there will be a better way to do it at some time in the future. The fishpond blog will remain as a place for things that I find in the fishpond outside my door. Thank you, friends, and all good wishes.

"Does she have an aversion," asks Gene the waitperson
diplomatically, "because this stuff's new?"
"Darn tootin'. These are great," Lum looks up from his plate.
"It's just fear, it ain't hate. But tain't my nature to wait."
"Sir, you're President. Waiting's what guys like me do."

[Note from Pip: I have the offer of a free ride to Sydney tomorrow, so I'm going to grab the opportunity to go and see family and friends for a few days, between Tuesday, April 5 and Sunday, April 10. I haven't taken time off for more years than I care to admit, so I won't be online for the duration. See you when I get back.]

"I don't dream about all things. Not tall things, mostly small things.
Dean, doesn't that hit you as curious?"
"Are you troubled?" asks the waiter. "Well, sure," says Lumwedder.
"I could feel a lot better. And Missus Lumweddder --
the First Lady. It makes her right furious."

A few minutes later, Lum asks Gene the waiter,
"Tell me, why did your folks call you Gene?
Is it short for Eugene?" "No sir. Just plain Gene.
My mother, it seems, had a dream about genes."
"Why, her druthers is my ruthers! Know what she means.