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The Cyclops Of Zalu-Za-Had

Once, long ago, on the island of Zalu-Za-Had, off the Northern coast of Africa, not far from Sicily, lived a Cyclops. One morning, as the sun rose in the sky, its reflection on the Mediterranean’s surface caused its eye to wink from the glare, as a distant mist arose from sea’s edge from which a boat with sails appeared.

Three tiers of silver gray rose high above the ship, nine in all, as it glided on the water, carried by the warm breeze. On its hull, painted in crimson red, was its name, Oui-Oui-Deux. “Obviously from the Port Of Paris, France,” thought Cyclops who never studied geography and needed no name since no one else lived on the island. It drank from the water falls, never looking down to see its reflection gazing back, or uttering a word to anyone. Cyclops ate the fruit of the Zalua tree, red, resembling Le Pomme du Frances since it was herbivore.

For three days sat Oui-Oui-Deux, anchored within the bay of Zalu-Za-Had, its sails drawn and tied, revealing the burgundy color of the wood from the Nice Forest, contemplated Cyclops, observing that three small boats were now rowing toward the beach. Three in each, “Neuf is Enuf”, hankered Cyclops approaching the sand on its hoofed legs, postured biped-ally with an offering, a basket of nourishing fruit determined to be a good host, yet uncertain how to greet its guests.

As the first boat landed, one of the sailors said politely, “Pardonnez-moi, vous etes un Monseur ou Madame Ogre?” After a thoughtful moment, Cyclops responded tersely, “I’m no Ogre, I’m a Cyclops, can’t you sea my blinking aye?”