A Tale of Two Imps - from Cheyenne

Cheyenne here folks.

I’m going to tell you a very quick tale. It’s not a tale of woe, not really, so there’s no need to fret about that. It is, however, a tale of two imps.

The first imp is Tempit. He’s a nasty little thing, full of sand and gears and numbers. His face is sealed behind a pane of glass that flashes 12:00 again and again and again, and his chest is round and elegantly embossed with vine-like filigree numbers, 1 through 12 evenly spaced around the edges. Spinning arms adorn his hands, whirling like helicopter blades on the back of his wrists, and more than one fat black moth has tried to get at the delicious silks wrapped tightly around him, at the silver threads gleaming against the golden numbers of years gone by, only to die screaming a quiet, terror filled shriek as the sweep hand on his back spins round and around.

Tempit, you may imagine, has a love of time. He steals it every chance he gets, from each and every person he comes across. He delights in hearing us go on and on about how “There just isn’t enough time in a day anymore!” His job performance is measured in seconds stolen and minutes wasted, and he is very good at his job.

Occasionally, however, he cant seem to steal enough time, or not from the right people. He has that problem with everyone now and then, and he accepts it, a little – one must be Zen about these things, after all. He can’t steal each and every minute, not unless he wants to be out of a job completely. But yesterday, The Editor – our own beloved Editor – made excellent use of her time, and Tempit was not able to steal even one brief second away from her.

So he called his buddy, Migrat.

Migrat is a pained thing, miserable and wretched. His skin is two and a half sizes too small, and his bones grind against each other instead of gliding. His eyes bulge and his ears bleed, and every nerve in his head is pressing against the inside of his skull. His chest barely has enough room for him to draw breath, and it is almost fortunate that, being an imp, Migrat doesn’t need to eat, for his belly would be hard pressed to hold a drop of water or a crumb of bread. It would be most fortunate, if he was not always beset by thins maddening hunger. Migrat is a creature that knows nothing but pain, and unlike most imps – Migrat loves to share.

Which is why I am here today, telling you all that the Editor has been abed most of the day with horrible migraines after having a most productive day yesterday. Fortunately, Migrat lacks patience, so she should be up and about – if not entirely right as rain – upon the morrow.

Kind thoughts, well wishes, and prayers are, as always, encouraged and appreciated.