The villagers worked the while separating the corn niblets from the cobb only too careful not to drop one lest their punishment be swift, odorous and, by custom and law, self-imposed. They milled and spoke of the ways that it was different before the millennium though few could offer examples to help the claim apart from the fact that back then it seemed easier to find certain seasonal fruits and properly fitting pants. And still they spoke. “How are you?” they called out. “Not as good as the king.” they’d reply. They had no king and the meanings of the response were as mysterious as the practices of their Queen whom, it was said, believed, according to a prophecy of the local oracle/notary, that a challenge to her throne would arise from the east on a dusty day. The Queen kindly confused east with left and forever made people approach her from the right with their questions and suggestions at pains of death or public embarrassment by impugning their chastity or hand-eye coordination. The days were all fairly dusty and the nights passed with chilled corn cocktails. As the recipe had been somewhat lost in translation several generations back the cocktails never had any alcoholic-content though, it bears mentioning, people felt compelled, by the weight of history perhaps, to act in ways suggesting just such an influence if in no other way than slightly slurred speech (equally applicable to the corn chunks floating in the brew which all to easily lodged in what few teeth the people could claim their own). For who were any of them - humble to the right of the queen, to the left of their corn work and under the printed vault of a sky - to question history. Though historians have since suggested that the Oracle may have merely noted to the Queen that a change of address would slow the receipt of her East Bay catalogs.