christopherowen.id.au

I present to you a youthful and somewhat insensitive re-telling of a classic fairy tale.

Please note—The following story is not meant to imply that the residents of Chernobyl were:

• tax evaders; or
• incompetent home builders; or
• mean spirited; or
• comparable to swine; or
• given to formulaic naming of their children.

Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely (and tragically) coincidental.

The Three Little Taxpayers

by C. D. Owen. (Age 10)

Once upon a time, there were three little taxpayers and they lived in a Russian town called Chernobyl. Two lived in the outskirts of the town and they had made their homes of poor building material. One whose name was Yuri had made his house of straw. The other, whose name was Yori, had made his house of sticks and branches. Everyone in the town made fun of the them. The other taxpayer lived in the upper-crust of the city and he was very well-off. His name was Yari and he lived in a magnificent sky-scraper and he made fun of Yuri and Yari as well.

One day, the big bad tax-collector came along and his name was Yiri. He came to Yuri’s house and knocked on the woven door.

“Little tax-payer, little tax-payer, let me in!”
“Not by the vinyl of my skinny wallet!”
“Then I’ll have to demolish your house!”

So the big bad tax-collector went away and then came back with a bull-dozer. He then knocked over Yuri’s residence. He then went and on and came to Yori’s house of sticks.

“Little money bag, little money bag, let me in!”
“Not by the leatherette of my medium filled wallet!” came the reply.
“Then I’ll have to demolish your house!”

And again he went away and this time brought back a demolishing ball. He then knocked down Yori’s house. Then he continued along collecting debts. He then came to the sky-scraper belonging to Yari.

“Little dollar-sign, little dollar-sign, let me in!”
And Yari replied, “Not by the one hundred percent leather of my fat wallet!”

And so away went the big, bad tax-collector yet another time. He then came back with a demolishing squad but they couldn’t destroy the sky-scraper because they didn’t have a permit to destroy large buildings.

As you have probably known, the big bad tax-collector was very greedy and he just had to have Yari’s wallet. So the big bad tax collector went to the Chernobyl nuclear power plant and he shut off the reactor’s cooling systems and then the power plant blew up causing Yari’s building to glow and melt.

The next day the big bad tax-collector came back in his protective clothing and he searched the rubble for Yari’s wallet, which he never found but he was glad he gained his revenge.

The moral to this story is: pay your debts or you’ll be sorry!

And the sleep won’t come,
the time ticks a pattern in my head,
a memory of you enters and fades,
a lost time, more potent than the time I’m losing now.

If I could choose, if I truly had free will,
I’d run, I’d break out, I’d be unbonded, free.
but while I’m here in this state, a listless nowhere,
I can’t, I won’t, I’ll never be.

and even now, when I feel almost alive, I’ll falter
search for words that won’t come, that will never say what I want to say
I’ll think that at the very least, I’ve created something
but for what purpose? In the end, I’ll hate them, hate it, loathe it all the same.

And the sleep still won’t come, but maybe I always am.

I walk down a narrow, high walled alley of some Mediterranean village. The sun beats down through the topless canyons, a harsh glow, warmth evaporated, an exuberant promise unkept.

Energy suddenly drains from me instantaneously, my legs sag and I flop against the blue wash wall, totally spent, the bag that I’m carrying falling limply to the ground. People stroll pass; some look at me, but through me, no recognition apparent, no friendly hand or aid. The remainder continue on oblivious. I’m not going any farther; this is where I’m going to stay, anchored to this ground, destination unknown and irresistibly unreachable.

Two young girls ride pass on bikes, they giggle as they pluck the sunglasses from my face. The sun flares in my eyes angrily, yet its heat still plays truant. Cute I think and wait for them to return them to me, but they don’t – they ride off, content with their spoils, unsympathetic to the fire in my mind. How could they? I ponder as if it really matters.

Time passes; an age; an instant. I return and I’m still affixed. I look down to my bag, the pound cake I was carrying is gone, no evidence of its existence, unless a bent clipboard and a crumpled piece of paper are a new confection.

I’ll go no farther I think, this is where I’ll stay.

Dear mister (or ms though I doubt it) robber,

Thank you for smashing my car window last week while it was parked in my parking space. The lousy handful of change that you stole, that probably amounted to a maximum of $15, is now going to cost me $463 in repairs (along with a couple of hours of cleaning up and delaying a trip I wanted to take). I hope that it was really worth it for you and that you did really need the money — next time I might just leave my doors unlocked to save us both the hassle.

Cheers,
Your victim,
Chris

Fellow Atlassian Mark Chaimungkalanont has just posted a summary on the mammoth undertaking that was Atlassian’s eighth FedEx day. (We deliver!) A huge congratulations to all participants; it’s always a very exciting time to be at the office when every single engineer at Atlassian is furiously banging out fresh code and fresh ideas.

This was a somewhat emotional FedEx day for me, being almost precisely a year from FedEx Day 6, when things took an unexpectedly bad turn for me and began what was without a doubt the most challenging, and changing six months of my life. I made it all the way to the end this time and I feel so much better than I ever, ever thought I would during those scarily dark days.

I’m also fairly proud of my monstrous creation as well.