New Stuff
Short Stories from Anúr Fihaedla
Important Info
In Anciir, the main country talked about in these stories, they speak a language called Anciiran. This is what the different letters from Anciiran sound like, to make it easier for you to pronounce names:
A: "ah" as in "top"
E: "eh" as in "bed"
I: "ee" as in "sleep:
O: "oh" as in "grow"
U: "oo" as in "you"
V: "uh" as in "run"
Ae: "ay" as in "pay"
Ĭ : "ih" as in "pin"
Ī: "I" as in "pie"
C: "s" as in "still" or "k" as in "cat" (note that in historical words [like country names], C often sounds like S, but in more modern everyday words, C often sounds like K. S has only replaced C in the last 500-ish years)
Þ / þ: "th" as in "path" (a softer th sound)
Ð / ð: "th" as in "the" (a rougher th sound)
Ć: "ch" as in "chocolate" (also shown as 'ch')
´ over a vowel emphasizes it
Marble Mining on the Anciiran Coast
Mines on the Anciiran Coast, [ ]
1554
Marble mining is a major industry in Anciir. The coast is filled with low mountains and cliffs rich with marble, which are mined, refined, and then sold throughout Senyuláctria and the Yunland, or even as far as the Rhodyelad and Senlathia. Mining marble can be dangerous, as miners often work on catwalks suspended on the sides of cliffs that can be hundreds of feet high, and the job is difficult work, but it pays well.
* * *
Mestar Ínikmassen was awoken just before dawn to the toll of bells that signaled the start of the work day. He and the other miners clambered groggily out of their bunks and dressed themselves. They wore dusty linen garments, thicker wool overalls filled with marble powder, leather kneecaps, and short boots. The miners’ bunkhouses lay about five hundred feet from the mining cliffs to the east. There were twenty bunkhouses, each with eighty miners. The bunkhouses were arranged facing each other in two rows of ten. To the west of these bunkhosues was the mess hall and the overseer’s homes, as well as a kitchen. This was Mining Site Four of the Anciiran White Coast Mining Corporation, the largest and wealthiest mining company in Anciir. All sixteen hundred miners walked over to the mess hall, where the cooks had already prepared the day’s meal.
Mestar sat down with seven of his friends, who worked in the same mining squadron as him, meaning they had grown close over the years. This morning’s meal was barley porridge cooked in water, with small pieces of fish caught off the coast nearby. There were also hard crackers known as aralbaeden, literally “rock bread”, which were stale bricks made from water and flour. The meal was mostly tasteless, but filling. The men ate a lot, knowing their next meal would not be for many hours. Mestar also stole a handful of extra aralbaeden and stuffed them in a pocket of his overalls to eat later. Stealing extra food was strictly forbidden and could be met with punishments such as deduction of payment, latrine cleaning duty, or even lashings. But Mestar found this risk better than the pain of hunger.
As the sun rose, the Head Overseer, the man who led the mining site, came into the mess hall. All the miners became quiet in order to hear his instructions.
“Good morning boys,” he called. “Today, all companies will both mine and work the carts. When you are dismissed, gather your gear and go to the cart lot. Each platoon will take one cart down to the mines with them. Both squadrons of each platoon will mine, but the platoons will alternate dragging the carts. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” The miners said disjointedly.
“You are all dismissed,” the Overseer now said.
The miners rose, leaving their wooden dishes behind, and exited the mess hall. Mestar’s platoon, a group of sixteen miners organized into two squadrons of eight, went back to their bunkhouse, where they took their pickaxes, shovels, hammers, and chisels from beside their beds. They then headed over to the cart lot with all the other men. They moved quickly so they could pick out a good cart. The mining carts were small rectangular wagons with four wheels that had ropes connected to both sides, allowing four men to pull the cart by the ropes and four men to push it. Sometimes, a cart would have a broken wheel or slanted axle or missing ropes, which made it far more difficult to maneuver it through the mines. Thus, being able to select a good cart was important. The last stop was at the wells, where each man filled his large leather waterskin. The waterskins were very heavy once full, but it was important to stay hydrated.
Now, Mestar’s platoon turned east and headed for the mine entrance. There were four such entrances, each one leading to a network of catwalks and pulley lifts that transported miners up and down the marble cliffs. Mestar’s platoon dragged their wagon down several flights of ramps until they reached an open catwalk that connected to the cliff, just fifty feet above the sea. The catwalks sat on wooden poles that had been drilled into the sides of the cliff, and they were connected to each other by taut ropes. The catwalks were as wide as two men lying head-to-toe, but only had railings in some places. They were rickety and it was common to encounter cracked or missing planks. Falling off the catwalks could be fatal, as the unlucky man would fall twenty, thirty, fifty, or more feet onto a catwalk below. Or worse, straight into the raging sea that beat against the rough base of the cliffs, sending white spray high into the air. The platoon was at an area where the catwalks had recently been put up, meaning they were fresh and new and the cliff here had barely been dug into. They positioned the cart at the edge of the catwalk, right next to the sea.
There were two different parts of the mines: the cliffs and the quarry. The quarry was established on flatter ground and was essentially a giant pit. In the quarry, multiple platoons would work together to carve out massive blocks of marble, which would then be dragged out of the mine on wooden rollers before being loaded into huge wagons at the top. Giant chunks of marble like this were used in large buildings and could be carved into things like monuments or imposing pillars. In the cliffs, men cut out smaller blocks of marble, depending on what their overseer instructed. These blocks would be used in construction as well, such as in making smaller bricks or roof tiles, but could also serve a more decorative purpose, like being carved into vases or jewelry. Mestar didn’t care what was done with the marble he mined, all that mattered to him was that he got paid for his work and nobody got injured.
The platoon waited for a few minutes until an overseer came over to them.
“You boys there,” he said. “Carve out blocks one foot high, two feet long.”
The overseers were tasked with giving instructions to the miners and making sure nobody was slacking off.
Mestar’s platoon now got to work. They hacked at the large expanse of cliff with their pickaxes. Since this section of the cliff had barely been mined, it was still sheer and rugged. The men smoothed out the cliff face with their picks, breaking off large protrusions with their pickaxes and chipping away smaller pieces with their hammer and chisels until the cliff face was relatively flat. This took about an hour. Every time a large chunk was broken off the cliff face it was placed into the cart. When the flattening work was done, one of the squadrons went to drag the wagon out of the mine. The other squadron in Mestar’s platoon volunteered to do this,
Mestar and his squadron began to cut into the cliff face to carve out a section that was one foot wide. Then, they would split this flat “bench” into blocks two feet long. Mestar hacked at the marble with his pickaxe, breaking it apart piece by piece. Every once in a while he would take out a measuring stick from a pocket in his overalls to ensure that he was not mining too far. The measuring stick was marked every inch up to twenty-four inches.
The labor was difficult, and within two hours Mestar was already exhausted. The sun beat down on them, and its light reflected brightly off the light marble. The ocean wind blew constantly, cooling the men down but also showering them with small droplets of sea spray. The salt from these droplets crusted on the men’s hair, clothes, and skin.
At 9:00 am, the overseers called out:
“The following companies will be sent for their midday break!” This was followed by the listing of 25 companies. The midday break was a one-hour rest where the men could relax and eat a meal. 25 companies were chosen by the Head Overseer at random every hour for this break.
Mestar’s company was not called, but he had just finished cutting a block out of the cliff. He noticed one of its corners was much higher than the other, so he flattened it out with his hammer and chisel. Then, by placing his chisel under the block he was able to jack one end up a few inches off the ground, allowing him to place the block into a leather pouch Mestar had carried on his back. This pouch was very large and had two straps on one end, making it much easier to transport the piece of marble. Using this device, he picked up the marble block and placed it in the cart, sliding it out of the pouch. Mestar noticed the cart didn’t have room for another block, so he called out to the guys in his squadron:
“Ey boys, the cart’s full.”
The seven other guys in his squadron set down their picks, stretched for a moment, and then came to the cart. Mestar and three others took up the ropes on the front of the cart while the four remaining men stood behind the cart. Together, they dragged the heavy wagon forwards, down the catwalk. Foot by foot, they pulled the wagon across catwalks and up ramps. With eight of them working together, it wasn’t too difficult to move the wagon, but pushing it up the ramps that zigzagged out of the mines was still a tiring task. The most difficult part was turning the wagon, however, since the wheels were unable to turn independently from the cart. Finally, they reached the top of the mine and they wheeled the cart toward a large pile of marble blocks near the entrance. The front of the wagon was set on a hinge, which could be unlocked to allow the wall to swing down. Now, the men pulled the marble blocks out of the front of the cart and carefully stacked them on the ground in a pyramid shape. When that was done, they rested for a few minutes, catching their breath and stretching out their arms and legs. Mestar ate a few pieces of aralbaeden. It was now roughly nine forty-five in the morning, and there were still many hours of work ahead.
“Okay then,” said one of Mestar’s companions, a bulky man named Teselad, “we ought to head back to the mine before any overseers yell at us.”
And so they grabbed the cart and carefully moved it down the cliff face. This time, four men grabbed the ropes on the back of the cart, preventing it from rolling away, while two men stood at the sides of the cart, helping to push it around turns and ready to catch the wagon if it began to slip down the ramps. The other two men simply walked behind the group, but all the men alternated between these three jobs, and so they distributed the workload evenly.
When they reached the area they had been mining at they resumed their work, once again cracking away at the cliff with their pickaxes. Marble isn’t a very strong rock, so it didn’t take unreasonably long to mine. Mestar had heard stories of the granite mines farther north, where men often broke pickaxes on the nearly indestructible stone. Some say that granite is so strong men will tear muscles in their shoulders or even break their bones when they strike it. These stories made Mestar realize that he’s lucky to work at a marble mine and not some place even worse. However, the marble did produce a lot of dust, which the ocean wind scattered everywhere. Looking at his friends’ faces, Mestar noticed they were caked in white, with trails of sweat carving through the light powder. This dust would inevitably be inhaled, drying out the mouth and nose and sometimes causing nosebleeds. Some men became ill with marble cough, a dry cough that became worse and worse over time. It was often accompanied by mucus and sometimes blood. As the cough worsened, those affected would feel weak and out of breath, and many would die within a few years. Mestar had worked in the marble mines for the past ten years and was already developing the marble cough. He knew most marble miners didn’t make it past thirty. At twenty-three years old, Mestar knew his time was coming soon. But that didn’t worry him much, an early death was a necessary sacrifice to provide for his wife and four kids back home. He hoped soon to buy a home farther west, where the land was more fertile, so his sons could grow up to become farmers and not miners like all of Mestar’s ancestors.
By eleven thirty the wagon was filled again, and the first squadron went to carry it out of the mines. At noon, the overseer called out once more the names of twenty five companies who had been chosen for their midday break. Mestar’s company was chosen. The men in his platoon celebrated briefly. They had worked nonstop for five hours in the hot sun. Their skin was covered in salt and dust, their mouths were dry, their limbs were weak, and their water had nearly run out.
They walked out of the mine and to the mess hall, where another bowl of porridge and strips of fresh fish waited for them. The men sat and ate happily, and they guzzled cool water from the wells. Mestar ate quickly and napped for a half hour. His friends awoke him when they were told to return to the mines, their break hour having ended. Mestar still felt tired, but he was now refreshed and in lighter spirits. The men all refilled their waterskins once more and returned to work.
Shortly after 2:00, the men were still hard at work mining. Suddenly, they heard a clamor from nearby. About thirty feet above them and a hundred feet to the left Mestar saw one of the catwalks collapse. A cart full of marble and six men plummeted off the catwalk, landing on another pathway twenty feet below. The cart had flipped over and dumped out its marble, which crashed into the catwalk, tearing a large hole. The rest of the cart plummeted into the sea. One man who had been standing on the side of the cart facing the sea fell into the ocean with it. The other five men slammed into the catwalk, and two of them bounced off of it and slipped into the ocean. Mestar watched in horror as their bodies were broken against the cliff face by the waves. He suddenly fell ill and threw up over the edge of his own catwalk. The three men who did not fall into the water lay on the shattered catwalk. One of them rose to his feet and began trying to help his friends, but the other two lay on the ground screaming. They had clearly broken several bones during the fall. Men rushed over to help the wounded, and hundreds of others watched in shock. The overseers soon ordered them back to work.
Mestar tried to shake the image of the cart falling, the crumpled bodies in the water, the men writhing on the catwalk. For the next four hours they continued to labor, cutting into the cliff face, breaking off blocks of marble, refining them into a more even shape, loading them into a cart, and dragging the cart up and down the cliff. At 6:00 pm the overseers called out that the mining day had finished, and the men stopped their work immediately. The entire platoon worked together to drag the cart, which was only half full at this point, out of the mine and bring it to one of the great piles of marble blocks, but they didn’t unload it. Instead, two dozen large wagons, each drawn by four horses, had pulled up next to the pile, and the platoons that had gathered around it began loading blocks of marble from the pile into the backs of the wagons.
While they worked, Mestar asked a man from another platoon if he knew what happened to the boys involved in the accident earlier.
“I heard one of the overseers talkin',” he said. “Says those two guys who were injured are bein' sen’ back to Aleseld. Says one of 'em prob’ly won’ make it. Says the poor bastards who fell in’o the water, well, no way to pull ‘em out, says they gonna have to leave 'em in there. Says their families are gonna have to ge' compensated.”
* * *
It took about an hour and fifteen minutes to finish loading the marble onto the large wagons, which would carry it to merchants in towns and cities somewhere, who would then trade it to people far away. Once that was done, all the miners shuffled over to the bathhouse, which was a giant wooden enclosure filled with water. Two companies went in at a time, and each of them had about seven minutes to wash off. Mestar’s company was one of the last to enter the bath, so the water was already gray with particles of marble. Still, he submerged himself in the water, scrubbing the dust and salt off his skin and out of his hair. When that was done he closed his eyes and floated in the water for a few minutes. Due to all the salt that had washed off the bodies of the other miners, it was easy to float, and the weightlessness relaxed his muscles. After a few minutes, the miners were sent back to the bunk houses, where they donned a clean-ish pair of linen clothes before grabbing dinner at the mess hall. Mestar didn’t have much of an appetite after what he had seen when the cart crashed through the catwalk, but that all changed when he smelled the food from the mess hall. Dinner consisted of a stew containing fish, potatoes, mountain beets, and some green herbs. There was somewhat unstale bread as well. The meal was simple, but after a grueling day of work, it was indescribably satisfying. The real treat, however, was a small glass of ale that each man was allotted. Mestar and his friends didn’t talk much while they ate, they were so tired. But they did discuss a little about their homes. This was the whole company’s last day of work for this shift. Miners worked for two weeks straight before being sent home for a month to rest and care for their families. Most men worked a second job during this time. Mestar and his companions looked forward to the rest, and talked about what they would do when they returned home.
Soon, the men were ordered to go to their bunks and they shuffled off. Mestar climbed into his bunk, a bed made of straw wrapped in linen, and pulled his wool blanket over himself. His body ached, every muscle was sore, and he was exhausted beyond measure. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.
The men of Mestar’s company were allowed to sleep in an extra hour the following morning. When they awoke, they were instructed to gather their belongings and go to the payment office at the head of the mining camp. The eighty men of the company were lined up and handed pamphlets made of thick parchment. Inside of these pamphlets were the men’s pay for their two weeks of labor. They each made 380 Lancír for a two-week shift, equal to 760 USD. Bonuses were earned based on how many shifts had been served, with every ten shifts awarding two extra Lancír.
Mestar opened his pamphlet. Within he found 426 Lancír, and a piece of parchment read: “Mestar Ínikmassen. Shift number 231. Base pay: 380 Lancír. Shift reward: 46 Lancír. Deducted: None.”
Mestar smiled as he boarded a wagon headed for his hometown, Elan Maríslia. He had spoken to a man from farther west and had learned that it cost roughly fourteen thousand Lancír to purchase a house with farmland. He already had nearly 12,000 Lancír saved. In a year or so, Mestar would be able to buy a house in western Anciir and start a farm. By then, his oldest two sons would be grown enough to help run the farm. Mestar planned to plant and harvest two years of crops, and then retire and live out his last couple years in peace. His life as a marble miner was a grueling and challenging one, but Mestar did it for his family, to give his sons a life he never got to live.
The Duel of Two Men in Amẽnla
Delbarok Pele, c. 1080
The Duel of Two Men in Amẽnla is a passage from Lor Durel nal Inladrlond, or “The Book of Inláctrland”, a book written by Delbarok Pele, a prominent writer at the time. Around 1080, he was travelling through the land of Senica on his quest to explore all the nations of Inláctrland. While in a small Senican village called Amẽnla he witnessed a duel between two men.
* * *
September 29, afternoon.
I arrived soon after noontime in a small town called Amẽnla. It was situated just west of the Amẽ-Dzerod River, and it held the only crossing within nine miles in either direction. Even so, the village was small and the roads leading to it were lightly traveled. This, I believe, was due much in part to the lawlessness of the region, as the forests here are roamed by bandits, and the Palćẽl’s hold here is weak. I was told by a man in Dorelpeć that the lands this far to the north and east are dangerous and lawless, yet I come here anyway, as I wish to explore every part of Senica.
I digress, Amẽnla was a small town of about two hundred. It was placed near the river, where the water bends south, so that it was defended on two sides by the river. Much of the village, perhaps thirty houses were surrounded by a wooden palisade, roughly triangular in shape, with one watchtower at each corner. There were two gates, one facing south and the other positioned at the bridge. Each gate was surmounted by a small watchtower. The bridge was perhaps twenty feet wide, made of an old stone frame supported by wood, with wooden railings. The rest of the buildings, perhaps ten in number, were sprawled outside the palisade, positioned by the river, and they were all farmhouses. One of these buildings had a small grain mill next to it.
I rode up to the south-facing gate, which was closed, and a man on the tower above, clad in a thick leather gown and iron helmet, called out to me in a heavy accent. He spoke in the native language, which was not quite standard Senican. I did not understand his words, and asked him to repeat it in standard Senican.
“Halt there, stranger!” He said in Senican. “What is your name and your business?”
“I am Delbarok Pele, I am an explorer from another nation. I am here to explore Senica, and I come to your town in the hopes of finding a bed and food, and perhaps a drink.”
“Are you of the House of Melñori?” Asked the soldier.
“No.” I responded.
“Do you carry weapons?” Asked the soldier.
“Yes,” said I, casting back my cloak to reveal my weapon, “This small sword here, and a knife, and an unstrung bow on the back of my horse.”
The soldier shouted something to another man concealed behind the wall, and then the gates creaked open, and three armed men came out, two carrying spears, and one with a sheathed sword. The man with the sword was clearly an officer, and he spoke to me now.
“You may enter stranger,” he said, “and treat yourself to the stock of our humble town. But you must swear that you will not cause trouble or spill blood, on the pain of jail or death.”
“I swear so.” I said, and then I was allowed to enter.
Inside the town I saw some men at work, pulling logs off a wagon, and another splitting firewood. A few small children played in the dirt off the side of the road, playing a game that involved a few sticks and stones. Some of the men looked up at me as I rode in, and the children scurried away. One of the men walked up to me, he was tall and stocky, and I dismounted my horse out of respect, as I knew that in this land talking to a man while upon one’s horse is a show of superiority, and I did not wish to make enemies here. The man looked me up and down. He was grimy, bearded.
“Stranger,” he said, his voice deep and gruff, “who are you and why do you come to this town?”
“I am Delbarok Pele, I am traveling through Senica, documenting the land and the people here. I have ridden all day and would like a good warm meal and a place to stay the night. I ask for your hospitality and nothing more.”
The man looked at me for a moment.
“Welcome to Amẽnla” He said. “I am Doća. We will treat you to a drink, and see if you are worthy of this town.”
I followed the men as they walked toward a humble tavern near the center of the town. We entered the tavern and sat at the bar.
“Barman!” Shouted Doća, “give us all a round of triple-blessings, and I shall pay. We will see if this newcomer is tought enough for the borderlands.”
The bartender filled small glasses nearly to the top and passed them around, and I was handed one. The glasses were filled with a strong-smelling liquor, dark brown in color. This was not the hard ale I had seen in the cities of Senica, this was something far stronger.
“Raise your glass, man,” Said Doća, “and drink on my blessing.”
I readied myself, as I knew I would have to survive these three blessings in order to win the hearts of these hard men.
“To the harvest!” Said Doća, and all the men echoed him, and I did as well, and we drank about one-third of the glass. The liquor burned my throat and tasted foul, but I managed to restrain my gag, but not a grunt of distaste.
“To life!” Said Doća, eyeing me, and we drank again. Again my throat was burned, but I swallowed the vile alcohol. Doća nodded his respect.
“To new friends!” He said, more warmly. I drank this blessing, and my nose burned as well, and my stomach began to churn, but I had succeeded in drinking three blessings.
“And to the dead.” Doća said now, and we all poured the last bit of drink onto the ground, as is custom in Senica.
Doća laughed loudly and shook my hand aggressively.
“Stranger!” He shouted. “I am impressed. Few men not from this land can swallow three blessings! You have earned our respect, and our hospitality. Welcome to Amẽnla. As long as you are here, we will protect and care for you.”
We then bought food at the tavern, and some minutes later I was given a rustic dish of venison, potatoes, and some sort of grassy plant that had a bitter taste. As we ate, I asked the men about their lives in Amẽnla, and they were happy to talk.
After some minutes, an altercation suddenly broke out between two men. They stood in each other’s faces, shouting.
“You stole my money, did you?” Shouted one man.
“No, I did not!” Said the other.
“But you did, as I know that I had twenty ćets when I walked in here, and now I have only ten! And you were the only person near me,” Responded the first man.
“Perhaps you deceive yourself,” reasoned the other, “and you only left home with ten ćets.”
“You call me a liar, do you?” The first man shouted, furious and somewhat drunken, “Return my money, you dirty Corañel!”
Corañel seemed to be the second man’s family name, and I realized now that the argument was escalating, as insults to one’s family in this land often result in bloodshed. Doća and a few other men moved to end the argument, to no avail.
“Get my family’s name out of your mouth, boy!” Yelled the second man.
“I should have known better than to sit next to a thieving Corañel. After all, stealing has been part of your family for ages! It runs in your dirty blood, or do you not remember how your grandfather, a lowly Peć he was, slighted my grandfather from his fortunes?”
Now, the second man was truly enraged. It seemed to me that some sort of generational feud had resurfaced, and the man’s family had been insulted.
“If you dare disrespect my family like this,” shouted the second man, “then let us see what valor yours has! Come now, I will stand for my honor, if you wish to prove your family’s name better than mine!”
“So be it! I shall meet you in the square, and the Corañels will finally be dealt the justice they have slinked away from for so long.”
Now a great clamor broke out, and the two agressors left the tavern, each with a group of men following them.
“What has happened?” I asked Doća.
“That man, who is a Sendãr, has insulted the other man, who is a Corañel. Their families have a history of conflict. Such an insult on a man’s family can’t stand, so now they will duel to preserve their family’s honor.”
Men ran through the streets, shouting that there would be a duel, and within the hour the whole town was crowded around the town square, which was a circle of dirt perhaps thirty feet wide, with some flagstones and a tall banner in the center. The Sendãr and the Corañel stood on opposite sides of the town square, each man with an axe in hand, and one with a long spear and the other with a pitchfork. Another man stood in the center of the square, and he seemed to be the moderator of the duel.
“Good men of Amẽnla!” He said now, and the chatter around us went silent. “Two men are gathered here to duel for the honor of their families. I pray you last, lay down your weapons now, and we may resolve this issue peacefully. Do you wish to discuss this issue and find a peaceful resolution?”
“No!” Both men shouted, and the crowd cheered.
“Very well,” said the duel’s moderator. “Then let the next of kin of each dueler step forward, and the priest as well.”
This was done, and the moderator continued.
“Good men,” he said, to the duelers’ next of kin, “on what grounds do your men fight?”
“For the honor of my family,” said the Corañel man, “and the honor of mine,” said the Sendãr, “and to settle an old dispute, and a new one.”
“Very well,” said the moderator. “Duelers: lay down your weapons but for your axes, these you will fight with. I pray you, respect your foe in this duel, and if he should beg for mercy, show him this. Priest, offer a prayer for these brave men.”
The priest began to speak in a tongue I did not know, his arms raised to the heavens, and all the townspeople bowed their heads and raised two fingers to their mouth, so I bowed my head as well. When the priest finished speaking he returned to the crowd, and the moderator spoke again.
“Good men,” he said, “If you are both ready to die for the honor of your family, then you may do so now. May the gods keep your souls!”
The moderator returned to the crowd, who cheered loudly. The two men charged at each other, swinging their axes, which were perhaps three feet long each, with broad blades. The Corañel man swung his axe in a wide blow at his foe, who stepped back and dodged the attack. Then, the Sendãr swung an overhead strike, but the Corañel man blocked his strike by placing his axe’s shaft under that of his enemy’s. The Corañel swung again, and was blocked by the other man. For a few minutes this fighting continued, and the crowd cheered loudly, urging on the man they hoped would win, or simply wanting bloodshed. Suddenly, the Corañel swung at the Sendãr, attempting to slice his head off, but the other man raised his axe at the last moment to block the blow. The Corañel man’s axe glanced off the blade of his foe and embedded itself in his enemy’s stomach. The Sendãr cried out and fell to his knees, and the crowd gasped, some cheered, and others wailed. The Corañel stepped back, axe ready to strike.
“Do you pray mercy?” Cried the moderator, but the wounded man said nothing.
And so, the Corañel swung his axe, and took off the head of the other man, and his body slumped to the ground. I nearly became sick as I saw that man’s head become removed from his neck and roll on the dirt, spitting blood. Some members of the crowd now cheered, some of the women cried, but most people were quiet and solemn. The moderator stepped forward.
“The duel has ended!” He said. “And with it, let the feud between the aggressors and their families end as well. Old wounds have now been washed clean with new blood, and honor has been preserved. The kin of the fallen may come now, and lay his body to rest. Priest, carry the head, and let us all give prayer.”
The fallen man’s body was lifted by his somber kin, and the priest took his head from the ground and wrapped it in white cloth, and began to say a prayer in that foreign tongue. I did not know the word’s but I bowed my head in respect for the dead man. Then, the priest and his procession left the town square.
I departed Amẽnla the next morning, but the memory of the duel there remained in my head. For some reason, the incident had shocked me. The way that two men, insignificant and poor, met in the center of their insignificant and poor little town and decided to try to kill the other for a cause so futile as the alleged stealing of some money. But I suppose the true reason for their duel was one of far greater importance: honor. In truth, those men met in the square and fought for their honor, and the honor of their kin. It struck me that I had seen the true definition of what it means to be a man as I watched that Senican lad die under the cold September sun, for honor.
I wondered: would the men of my country lay their lives down for their honor? Would I? This question I can not answer, but I do know that these Senican men are of another kind than the men of my country, far more chivalrous and brave. I now see why they carry themselves with such confidence, as I too would be proud to call myself a Senican.
Journal of a Slave in Southeastern Anciir
Tĭlíoten, Southern Selamþírien, Anciir
June, 1556
June 3
Hello. My name is Menvnaa Teþladaa-Yúks, and I am a slave in Anciir. I am nineteen years old, and I am a Yun woman. I lived in a small village with my family in the far north of Anciir, but we frequently traveled. In the winter of 1554, some of the men of our village got into a fight with some Anciiran farmers, and the farmers were killed. The military was sent out, and our camp was raided. My whole family was captured and taken as slaves. My husband and I had a baby boy named Marza, who was two at the time, but he died this past winter from a fever. My husband and I live on a farm in a town called Tĭlíoten. We tend to the farm here and the farm animals, and the food we grow is sent to cities to be eaten by the people there. I recently bought this journal for 10 lancir so I could record my stories. Perhaps one day, when my husband, Tunyunĭkvs, and I are free we will like to look back at the stories.
Here on the farm life is good enough, and we live with nine other slaves, including two children under ten, who are not yet old enough to work. There are four women here, and five men. The oldest of us, we call her Mother Þalba, or just Mother, is forty-one—very old. She says she was born a slave and worked as one her whole life after her mother was captured during a battle many years ago. The men and women live in different houses close to each other on the land. These houses are small pit houses dug into the ground with a thatched roof, but they are warm enough, though during the spring and summer bugs are common. Our beds are bunks, with three rows of bunks each containing two beds. We have hung pieces of linen above the top bed on each bunk to stop bugs falling on us while we sleep. I sleep on one of these top bunks, with a kind, slim woman named Metsisa under me. Her family was captured from the Ilinís Islands some forty-five years ago during a war there. Her mother was born a slave, and she has been born one as well, though she, at age twenty-two, hopes to buy her freedom and her child’s freedom before her death. She has a son aged five, but her husband died four years ago, just after the child was born. Each slave has two pairs of clothes, one meant for working and one meant for going into town, to church, or relaxing. During the harvest we usually work about ten hours per day, from six in the morning, just after sunrise, to four in the afternoon. But at twelve, we take an hour long lunch break, so we really only work for nine hours. During the harvest, the labor is difficult. The men take scythes and cut down the wheat, rolling it into bundles and loading it onto carts. All the while, they continue to weed and tend to the wheat that has yet to mature enough to be harvested. If Mister Selaemvs, our master, orders, they have to grind some of the wheat into flour and put it in linen bags. Some men also collect firewood. Us women tend to the farm animals and harvest the pícarels. There are cows, chickens, and sheep here. Some crops, such as carrots, potatoes, and mountain beets, are pretty much only grown to turn into animal feed, so we must harvest these plants, grind them into animal feed, and give this to the livestock. We also buy oats from town markets using master’s money and feed that to the animals. Everyday, their water buckets must be refilled, their pens must be cleaned, the cows must be milked, and all the animals must be groomed and kept free of pests. The women also do laundry for the slaves and our masters. The men may also help us with this, and they are the ones who slaughter and dress the animals when it’s time to do that. The children are sent to school during the day, and when they return they spend most of their time playing or helping with chores.
Every afternoon, all the slaves sit together around a fire and the women cook dinner. We sing songs and tell stories, and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening relaxing. Often times we go into town for a while or to church if there is an evening sermon. Metsisa likes to make art in her free time, beautiful paintings of her homeland, which she has never seen but only heard of from her mother’s stories, and Mister Selaemvs allows her to sell these in the town as long as he gets 50% of the earnings. Our master is kind to us, far kinder than some other masters, as I am told, and there has not been a single beating or lashing for six years on his farm! Of course, it helps that all of us slaves are respectful and obedient.
Anyway, today I awoke at six with all the other slaves. At seven-thirty, the children will walk to school, and they will return around twelve-thirty, just in time for lunch. We all ate breakfast together, a quick meal of bread and dried beef and fresh berries that the children collected from the woods yesterday. Today, the first thing I did after breakfast was go to the garden, which held the carrots, potatoes, and mountain beets. Metsisa came with me, as she and I are good friends. We uprooted many of the potatoes, several beats, and some of the carrots. We used our hands and rounded digging shovels to pull out the plants. The green plant parts of the vegetables are cut off, and we saved four potatoes, the best-looking ones, and a beat for dinner. Mister Selaemvs doesn’t mind if we eat any of the crops, as long as we leave enough to feed his animals. Everything that we won’t eat, including the leaves, the vegetables, and the roots, are thrown into large metal buckets. Nearby, there is a large field full of grasses and clovers, so we rip these out and put them in the buckets as well. Metsisa and I both have two buckets, and they are heavy, but we carry them back to the bunks and put some barley seeds into them, which were bought in the town. We also have fish meal purchased from the down, which is crushed dried fish, and this is put into the buckets of feed to provide protein for the animals. Now, Metsisa and I take a smaller bucket and bring it to a well about one hundred meters away. We fill it with water and return to our buckets. Each bucket of food gets half a water bucket’s worth of water. Once all the ingredients are in the buckets, we use large wooden pestles to grind up the feed. This labor is difficult because it takes a long time to crush everything up and mix it together. The end result is a brown slop with specks of color from smaller pieces of food that remain uncrushed. By the time the feed has been prepared it is nearly ten in the morning, and Metsisa and I drag the buckets down to the animal pens. We use our shovels to scoop the feed into the troughs of the cows and sheep, and the animals come to eat. Even though their pens are filled with grass and clovers, the animals seem to prefer the feed. We find Telemaena in the sheep’s pen, grooming them with a brush and a bucket of water. Telemaena is sixteen, and she was not captured in war like most of the slaves here, but is instead paying service as punishment for stealing. She has been a slave for six months and will be freed in another nine. She is pretty and fair, but she doesn’t talk much, though I often hear her singing to herself. Metsisa and I greet her kindly, and she smiles at us, humming while she grooms the sheep.
She says the cows have been milked and groomed, and she is almost done with the sheep. Metsisa and I go and feed the chickens their oats and quickly clean out their pen and coop. The rooster is kept separate from the hens, and we collect several eggs from the hens. Then we enter the sheep pen and begin cleaning it, with Telemaena helping. We scoop the poop off the ground using broad shovels and put it into buckets. It will later be used to fertilize the fields, once the harvest has been completed. Any sticks, pieces of wool, or other things that don’t belong in the pen are picked up. The sticks are brought into the bunkhouse because we can use them as kindling. We then do the same in the cow’s pen. With three women working this does not take long, and we finish about twenty minutes before twelve. We decide to rest until the lunch break, and we go to the well to wash off. The men soon arrive as well, and my huband and I exchange information about our day. Just before twelve we all head over to the cook area, where Mother Þalba has prepared lunch. Mother Þalba does not work as much as the rest of us. Mostly, she does the laundry, milks the cows sometimes, and runs errands into town. She also cares for the children. However, we do not mind her lack of work, as she is very old and has worked as a slave for far longer than any of us. Strangely, she has enough money to buy her freedom, but she chooses not to. Mother Þalba is a stout, strong woman with many wrinkles and even some gray hair. Her skin is olive and her eyes are hard, and her hands are thick and wrinkled from years of work. But Mother Þalba tells many stories to us and the children, and she is a great cook. Today, she has prepared fish bought from the town, and she has made them into a stew with potatoes, beets, and pig lard. The stew is very good and filling, and each person gets some bread as well. Soon after we sit down to eat the children return from school and are given their bowls. They eat as fast as they can, say thank you to Mother Þalba, and run off to play. One of the men brings out a deck of cards and we all play a few rounds of a game. Then all of the women break off to talk amongst ourselves, and the men gamble. I tell my husband to be smart with his gambling, as we can not afford to lose much money, but the men rarely bet much.
At one, Mister Selaemvs comes down to gently remind us to get back to work. The children are playing with dolls in the dirt nearby, and he gives them each a sweet. Mister Selaemvs gives the children sweets once or twice a week, and gives one to the adults at the end of every month. They are very good, made by his wife using syrup, crushed berries, and lots of sugar, being left to harden in their cool basement. Sometimes, they are made with wine as well, though only the adults are allowed to eat these.
We all return to work, and Metsisa, Telemaena, and I hed to the field of Pícarel trees. Pícarels are large fruits that grow on trees. They have a leathery red skin, a thick pinkish rind, and juicy red flesh surrounding a hard pit. We climb on tall stools and cut the fruits off the trees when they are ripe (one knows they are ripe when their skin develops dark streaks). Once all the fruits has ve been collected, we bring them to the bunkhouses to process them. Only the flesh can be eaten, as the skin and rind can cause someone to throw up, and the pits are impossible to eat. However the skins, which are like leather, can be processed and made into cheap shoes, bags, waterskins, or other things. We took each fruit and cut it in half using large knives. The skin and rind were then sliced off. Metsisa went and threw the rinds to the sheep, since they could eat them without getting sick. The pits of the fruits were gouged out. The pícarel flesh was sweet and juicy, but it spoiled fast unless dried. We set aside some pieces of fruit to eat at dinner, and the rest were placed on a clay tray and baked over a low flame to remove all the water. This way they could be sold.
By now it was nearly four, but we still had to bring the milk into town, where one of the bakers would take it, or it could be sold to some other family. Mother Þalba and I each brought a bucket down into town, as there were only two buckets, but the other women came as well and we passed the buckets to them whenever we got tired. It was about a fifteen minute walk to the closest baker, often slightly shorter when we didn’t have to carry the milk. We approached the bakery and entered. The building was dark now that all the cooking fires were out. However, the baker was still there, and he graciously took one of the buckets of milk, paying us for it, though all the money would go to our master. The rest of the milk we sold to a family with many kids, though it took some time to find people willing to buy it.
When we returned home it was time for dinner, and the women worked together to make the meal. The men had placed snares in the forest and had brought back three rabbits, gutted and dressed. We cut the meat out of the rabbits and cooked them over the fire in a large pot. Into this pot we threw the potatoes and beets we had collected earlier, the leftover pícarel fruits, and some salt and sugar, and some herbs for flavor. We let all these ingredients cook in their juices, and when everything was done it smelled delicious. Everyone sat around the fire and ate, and the meal was one of the beast we have had in a long time. Then, one of the men told us all the story of a battle he had fought against Anciiran soldiers before they captured him, a story he had told perhaps a dozen times, but it was still entertaining. Then, Mother Þalba read us all a passage from the Wítliban, as she does every night. Today she read from the Epic of Doom which detailed the end of the world. The children cuddled against their mothers in fright when Mother Þalba read how Feþenír the Wolf swallows the sun on Doomsday, plunging Earth into eternal darkness. When Mother Þalba finished reading the night’s passages, we put out the fire and went to our bunks. I climbed into bed, tired after a long day of work and a full meal sitting in my stomach. My bed was a simple plank of wood covered in a mattress made of straw and linen, and there was one wool blanket. It was not nearly as comfortable as my bed in my old home, but it was comfortable enough. I thought about how my husband and I both made 8 lancir a month, and in the past 31 months we had saved a total of 403 Lancir between the two of us. It would cost 1,448 Lancir to buy both of our freedoms, so at this rate, it would take another six years to buy our freedoms. I would be twenty-six, and my husband would be twenty-nine, which was old. Most men only live to see thirty-two or thirty-three. For a slave, next year was not even guaranteed, as our lives were much rougher and more difficult than the lives of the landholders, and even the peasants. I’m sure I will live to see freedom, as most women live to thirty-six or more, and even a slave woman could easily live to thirty-three, especially if she doesn’t have kids, though I plan to have one soon. To buy my child’s freedom would be an additional 70 Lancir, but between myself and my husband, that is only four extra months of work, and perhaps our mater will be merciful on us and let us buy our child’s freedom for less. I can do nothing but hope that both myself and my husband will live long enough to be freed. When we are free, we will have no money, and we will become peasants. Still, this will be an upgrade from where we are now, and it means that our child will be free, and he may earn enough money to buy himself a house when he grows old enough.
Old Stuff
Time.
Time always moves on.
No one knows when it began
No one knows when it will end.
Time remembers all.
From the first star
To the last
Time keeps moving on.
Time is the only constant.
Children grow old
Flowers bloom and trees crash to the earth.
But time keeps moving on.
The bravest lion must one day be bested.
The strongest stone must one day crack.
The tallest tower must one day come tumbling down.
But time keeps moving on.
Kings die
And empires fall
And rivers of blood stain the stones.
But time keeps moving on.
Every civilization must one day collapse.
Every species must one day vanish.
Every star must one day die.
But time keeps moving on.
All came from darkness
And to darkness all will one day return.
Even when the last light fades to black
Time keeps moving on.
Time has watched
Flowers bloom
And people die.
Time has watched
Empires rise
And it has watched them fall.
Time is the only constant.
Time remembers all.
No one knows when it began.
No one knows when it will end.
But one thing is for certain.
Time will keep moving on.
Catch a little rhyme
(inspired by Eve Merriam)
Once upon a time,
I caught a little rhyme.
I tried to put it in a case,
But it became a vase.
I attempted to fill it with flowers,
But it grew into a tower.
I tried to knock it down,
But it became a hound.
I gave it a treat,
But it morphed into a street.
I attempted to drive on it with my car,
But it turned into Mars.
I tried to fly to it in a rocket,
But it appeared in my pocket.
When I tried to extract it from my pocket with my hand,
It became a rubber band.
Then it stretched and grew until it was the oceans and the land.
The Alien's Nosy Neighbor
Quernikk’s nosy human neighbor was snooping around...again. The neighbor’s name was Fred, and he was very superstitious. He walked around wearing tinfoil hats and spent his days researching UFO sightings and trying to prove aliens were real. And he was suspicious of Quernikk. Quernikk was from a planet the humans called Orion Major-3B Alpha. Quernikk’s people, the Kazaquerks, called it Kenkelwi. And Quernikk was on a special, top secret mission: observe the humans, gather data, and report back to Kenkelwi. But stupid hecking buttface (all words Quernikk had learned from the humans) was abut to blow the aliens cover, he was sure of it.
There was only one way to handle this: eliminate the threat. Quernikk ducked behind the house he was temporarily residing in and morphed into his natural form: A blue, muscular, humanoid body with four long arms, which ended in five fingers. Each finger had a black claw extending from it. Quernikk’s head was a huge, oval-shaped thing mounted on a long neck. His mouth was composed of one row of large shark-like teeth, then a second mouth with yet more teeth. His eyes were placed on antennas like a slug’s. Quernikk also had four barbed tentacles protruding from his back which could inject paralyzing venom. Now time to deal with Fred.
The alien snuck around, waiting for his enemy to come into attack range. Suddenly, Fred jumped out from a corner of the house, snapping photos on his phone.
“I KNEW IT!!!” The human screamed. “I knew you were an alien this whole time! AHA! Gotcha, vile fiend.”
Quernikk snatched the phone with a long tentacle, transformed into his human version and did the only thing he could think to do: call the cops.
Fred and Quernikk wrestled and fought until the police arrived. The cop stepped out of his patrol car and walked up the driveway. Quernikk bolted up and ran towards the officer.
“Requimpler,” he said, which was what the Kazaquerks called their law enforcers. “Uh...I mean---officer, sir, ma’am. Sir! This man has been stalking me.” He gestured frantically to Fred, who’s tinfoil hat was crooked, his hair messy, his shirt ruffled and his glasses broken.
“LIES!” Fred screamed. “This person is an alien! Quick, shoot him! SHOOT HIM!!! He is a menace to society and a danger to human civilization.”
“Uh-huh,” the cop said, like he had dealt with Fred saying things like this before. Which he had.
“This lunatic attacked me!” Quernikk cried.
“He’s an alien,” Fred persisted. “I’ll prove it to you.”
Without warning, the psychotic man pounced on Quernikk and tackled him. Fred jammed his finger into the alien’s eye. Quernikk turned into alien form and roared with fury, throwing Fred off him. The terrified cop screamed like a 4-year old girl and pulled out his pistol, blasting Quernikk over and over again. The blue life form shrieked. The bullets penetrated his arms and sides, but his tough skin stopped the rounds from killing him. Terrified Fred joined in on the yelling.
COVER BLOWN! COVER BLOWN! ABORT, ABORT! EXECUTE DEFENSIVE PLAN DELTA BLACK! COVER BLOWN!
Quernikk was screwed. The humans knew his disguise. He executed Defensive Plan Delta Black. This basically meant kill all witnesses and escape. Quernikk stabbed the officer with his venomous tentacles and clawed through his throat. He then turned to Fred and engulfed the man’s face in his mouth and killed him. Now, Quernikk hopped in his Spaceship, disguised as a Volkswagen beetle and pressed the red button on the back of the wheel. The car transformed into the one-man spaceship, which was a floating silver orb with a ring that spun forward and an egg-shaped wing, the tip of which pointed forward. Quernikk sped off into Hyper-space, reporting back to his commanders on the radio.
Mission failed...
THE MASK
Everybody stares at the mask.
So many questions in their mind, none they dare ask.
Gazing, staring, watching,
watching the man, the man marching,
marching with that mask.
These people, they do not know,
the things this mask refuses to show,
the secrets it hides
behind those eyes blue as the tides.
Ears shaped of spears,
above those ears many a horn,
an expression forlorn.
Forlorn, forlorn and dreary,
tired and weary.
With no home to call home,
forced to roam,
roam and roam,
under the sky: a monochrome dome.
Through many a town the mask has wandered,
attracting many a stare from those who pondered:
What is that mask? Why is it here?
The townsfolk and travelers gather near,
gazing, staring, watching,
watching the man, the man marching,
marching with that mask.
Everybody stares at the mask.
A LOCKED CABINET, A DIAMOND RING, AND A CAT
The cat had chased her brother into the empty cabinet in the laundry room. The one that Masha, her brother, loved to sleep in. She had chased him down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room. Masha had stolen the Servant’s diamond ring, the one she revered and treasured and kept locked in a secure wooden box. The Servant was an enormous creature that walked on two legs. She had pale, hairless skin and brown fur that flowed from her head. The Servant and the cats lived in symbiote, the cat relying on the tall animal for food and water, with the cat running the show, even though the Servant didn’t realize it.
But Masha had stolen the ring. Peep, the other cat, had charged after him, trying to save the Servant’s beloved possession. Masha bolted into the laundry room, Peep snapping at his black tail. As the feline turned sharply into the laundry room, skidding on the floor, she lost sight of her brother.
“Masha?” she called. “Where are you? I can’t see you. Come on, Masha, the Servant will be mad!” Just then, Peep heard a yowl from above. She turned and saw her brother leaping towards her from a high shelf, the ring around his one white paw. Masha was much larger than Peep. He crashed into her and slammed her to the ground. But Peep was quicker than her brother. She squirmed and clawed, trying to snatch the ring with her claws. The two of them rolled into the empty cabinet by the washer, shrieking playfully. Before they realized what was happening, there was a loud slam, and then darkness. The two disentangled themselves from the pile of hair and claws and teeth that was their little fight. Masha pushed at the closed cabinet door. But it had locked automatically. The two cats began to cry for help. It would be a long two hours before the Servant finally returned home.
A Hoglitz's Revenge
The car screeched, swerving wildly to avoid the small green man curled in the fetal position in the center of the road. As the car zoomed by, the little figure jumped up from its resting position, startled out of its peaceful slumber. Now, the man shook his fist at the black sports car.
“Watch where yer goin’, human!” It screeched in rage. In response, the driver of the car rolled down his window, revealing a pudgy, ugly face. The driver’s chin was connected to his chest via a lump of fat that might’ve been his neck. His nose was round and red, with two nostrils that now flared angrily. He had a mullet of black hair slick with gel, a horseshoe mustache of the same color, and dark, dark glasses over his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deep and coarse with a slight American accent.
“Maybe don’t sleep in the road, eh?” he called, before rolling up his window and driving away with lots of irritating engine revving.
“Stupid Americans,” the Hoglitz, as those green creatures were called, mumbled. They never had any respect for his species. They threw their trash at them, kicked them, made fun of them….but now, Greejik vowed he’d get back at that stupid human and his stupid car.
Hoglitins first appeared in Scotland around twenty years ago. Nobody knows where they came from, they all just rose up out of the soil one day. Since then, the local Scots have been very kind to their tiny green countrymen, and the Hoglitins returned the favor. A Hoglitz will often hang around a farm, eating bugs, mold, and parasites off of crops and livestock, and stealing the occasional chunk of bread or potato. The Scots and the Hoglitins developed a sort of symbiosis, the Hoglitins worked as natural pesticides, and they received food and shelter for their work.
The average Hoglitz is about 1.5 feet tall. Their skin is green and leathery, and they are humanoid in shape. Their eyebrow bones protrude from their faces. They all wear overalls of varying colors, brown moccasins, and sometimes Santa hats.
Hoglitins often befriend humans. They play cards with them, help them cook meals, and share jokes with them. But a Hoglitz can be a dangerous enemy. Armed with ten razor-sharp claws, heightened senses, and a corrosive vomit, they can be quite the foe. And they hold a grudge.
So now, Greejik set out to take revenge on the lousy American that tried to squash him. To do this, he’d need help.
First, he went around town, asking people where that car had gone, and collecting information about the driver. After several hours, he learned the guy’s name was Joe Johnson and he was staying at a hotel just a few miles away. As the sun began to set, Greejik and the other Hoglitins dug into the dirt, forming little burrows in which they’d spend the night. Greejik slept soundly, knowing that tomorrow he’d wreak his revenge.
As the sun rose, so did the Hoglitins. They popped out of the ground and began to search for breakfast, as they did every morning. Greejik and a dozen other Hoglitins were feasting on beetles and worms in Sean O’hara’s farm. This was the perfect opportunity to recruit his friends to attack the human.
“I like ‘dis idea,” another Hoglitz, Neetgri told him. “Mefinks ‘dis is the same guy that ran over Dodomew last week.” Dodomew had been hit and killed by a sports car while he was rummaging through a trash bag on the side of the road. Neetgri had wanted to get back at the human who’d killed him since the day the murder happened. She’d watched the car hit her friend.
The other Hoglitins agreed with Neetgri. This monster needed to be stopped before he hurt another Hoglitz! So that night, the thirteen of them began the journey to the hotel the man was staying at: the Hillside Resort. They hitched a ride on a pickup truck and disembarked a half-mile from their objective. They crept stealthily along the side of the road, until they came upon the parking lot of the hotel. One member of the group, Jorgnii, spotted the sleek black car almost instantly.
“Hoglitins!” Greejik called, raising his fist into the air. “Let’s go! For Dodomew!”
With that, he stormed into the parking lot, the others charging behind him. Some of the mob slashed the car’s tires with their inch-long claws. Others picked up rocks and tossed them at the windshields. Hoglitins possessed extreme strength, and could easily toss a big stone. Greejik and a few others vomited all over the car. They barfed on the hood, the roof, and through holes that had been smashed into the car. Their acidic bile began to slowly corrode the car. Within minutes, several small holes had been burned through the seats and dashboard, while other parts of the car were sizzling as the acid ate away at the metal.
Of course, the car’s alarm had begun to blare, and it had attracted the attention of Joe Johnson, who now burst through the hotel’s front doors to make sure it wasn’t his car’s alarm going off. He stepped outside to see his precious vehicle with tires slashed, windows smashed, and swarming with short green people.
“HEY!” He bellowed, sprinting towards the car. Along the way, he picked up a branch and ran with the stick over his head, ready to strike. But as the man approached, chest heaving, face red with rage and eyes on fire, the Hoglitins pounced!
The first one to jump at Joe was met with a branch to the jaw, sending him flying into a nearby car. But others latched onto the American. Joe swung wildly with his makeshift weapon, clobbering a few Hoglitins. Nevertheless, the small humanoids slashed at Joe’s clothes, cut his hair, and scratched his skin. One barfed in his face, coating the man with a sticky, green liquid that burned the skin and temporarily blinded the eyes.
Joe stumbled back with a scream. He desperately wiped the acid off his face, but by then it had melted his expensive glasses and left his skin red and stinging. Now, the big man turned and ran away towards the safety of the hotel. As he did so, the Hoglitins let out a cheer. They’d finally put an end to the cruel man, ensuring the safety of the Hoglitins all over the small Scottish village. Greejik hoped the man had learned a valuable lesson: never mess with a Hoglitz.
Random Words....Thing?
The toothbrush’s bristles were yellow and the poor thing made no sound. No sound except silence. Apparently, silence is a sound, since you can hear the silence. Silence can be louder than sound. The toothbrush had been used immediately after it was taken out of its package, which was a tomato cage. The toothbrush had dreamed of retiring to Florida and spending its days in a hammock, reading Moby Dick. Maybe it would even learn to skateboard! But those now seemed like childish wishes of an impossible future. The only thing it feared was darkness, which was weird because a toothbrush can’t see. But then how would it read Moby Dick? Maybe it’d listen to an Ebook….Toothbrushes do have ears, you know. Suddenly a fortune teller walked into the bathroom. This fortune teller was an empty roll of toilet paper. It claimed that it could foresee the future, although it was probably just psychotic.