Strike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with Apollo's golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonlit waves, and charm the lovers wandering 'mid the vine-clad hills. But know, your sweetest strains are discords all, compared with childhood's happy laugh— the laugh that fills the eyes with light and every heart with joy. O rippling river of laughter, thou art the blessed boundary line between the beasts and men; and every wayward wave of thine doth drown some fretful fiend of care. O Laughter, rose-lipped daughter of Joy, there are dimples enough in thy cheeks to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of grief.

He turned the crank handles, hoping the thing wouldn't explode in his face. A few clear tones rang out-metallic yet warm. Leo manipulated the levers and gears. He recognized the song that sprang forth-the same wistful melody Calypso sang for him on Ogygia about homesickness and longing. But through the strings of the brass cone, the tune sounded even sadder, like a machine with a broken heart-the way Festus might sound if he could sing.Leo forgot Apollo was there. He played the song all the way through. When he was done, his eyes stung. He could almost smell the fresh-baked bread from Calypso's kitchen. He could taste the only kiss she'd ever given him.

The the glow become brighter: a holographic golden sickle with a few sheaves of wheat, rotating just above Meg McCaffrey.A boy in the crowd gasped. 'She's a communist!'A girl who'd been sitting at Cabin Four's table gave him a disgusted sneer. 'No, Damien, that's my mom's symbol.

Ever since my famous battle with Python, I've had a phobia of scaly reptilian creatures. (Especially if you include my stepmother, Hera. BOOM!)

Hermes smiled. I knew a boy once ... oh, younger than you by far. A mere baby, really.Hermes ignored them. One night, when this boy's mother wasn't watching, he sneaked out of their cave and stole some cattle that belonged to Apollo.Did he get blasted to tiny pieces? I asked.Hmm ... no. Actually, everything turned out quite well. To make up for his theft, the boy gave Apollo an instrument he'd invented-a lyre. Apollo was so enchanted with the music that he forgot all about being angry.So what's the moral?The moral? Hermes asked. Goodness, you act like it's a fable. It's a true story. Does truth have a moral?Um ...How about this: stealing is not always bad?I don't think my mom would like that moral., suggested George. Martha demanded..I've got it, Hermes said. Young people don't always do what they're told, but if they can pull it off and do something wonderful, sometimes they escape punishment. How's that?

Five syllables, Apollo said, counting them on his fingers. That would be real bad.

Dreams like a podcast,Downloading truth in my ears.They tell me cool stuff.Apollo? I guess, because I figured nobody else could make a haiku that bad.He put his finger to his lips. I'm incognito. Call me Fred.A god named Fred?

He cleared his throat and held up one hand dramatically."Green grass breaks through snow. Artemis pleads for my help. He grinned at us, waiting for applause. That last line was four syllables." Artemis said. Apollo frowned. "Was it?" "No, no, that's six syllable, hhhm." He started muttering to himself. That's five syllables!— He bowed, looking very pleased with himself.