STORIES

by Vizon Rok


GONE FISHING

The muddy creek crept lazily along. Water bugs and mosquitoes buzzed and hovered in the air like tiny kiowas, searching for their next victim to torment. Scattered traces of foam drifted slowly with the current. Folks said the foam was snake spit, and with all the snakes in Crooked Creek, the idea did not seem too far-fetched. I picked my way carefully along the unpredictable trail, keeping a sharp eye out for spider webs and thorns.
"So where's it hiding?" I asked my sister, Merry.
"Over there," she replied, pointing to the far side of the creek where a huge wall of jagged rock towered . . . the bluffs. Today my sister and I were going to try to catch the mysterious big white catfish of Crooked Creek. We toted a tackle box, our two fishing poles, and a sack of bait. Dressed in our rattiest, cheapest clothes, we halted at the edge of the dark water. At one time I considered fishing a relaxing and sometimes even boring event, but soon this concept would be disproved. In order to catch this miniature Moby Dick we had to get to "the good spot" – a rocky outcrop in the middle of the bluffs. It seemed logical that the fish would hang out where no one went, and no one ever fished off that ledge (that we knew of). So we set our eyes on our ideal spot and headed up stream. First we would have to transverse the black, creature-filled water. We found the shallowest place to cross and began at once, trying not to think about the things lurking around our feet. Scrawny legs wobbling on rocks, hair tied back in a ponytail, I squealed as the cold water rose above my knees. The slick, algae-coated stones forced me to cling to my sister's hand as my canvas shoes slipped every which way. The thought that a snake would scare out from under one of the rocks frightened us, but the thrill of such an adventure kept us going. I gasped when I saw something dark creep out from under the rock I was standing on, then noticed with relief that it was just a crawdad. Finally my sister helped me up to the dry boulders on the opposite bank and we grinned at each other in victory. Now we just needed to walk across the sheer side of the bluffs to the outcrop. It seemed easy enough at first, but as we progressed further and further along, the ridge we followed grew thinner and steeper. I stumbled once and watched some loose rocks clatter down the cliff. It was then that I began to really feel the danger I was in by being so high up. I realized as the rocks tumbled down the craggy rock-face that if I fell, water would not be the first thing I would hit. I tore my eyes from the water far below and set my jaw in determination. I had made it this far and nothing would stop me from catching a fish now – or at least trying. I timidly made my way along the vertical cliff face, gripping any handhold available until I reached the ledge where my sister helped me leap across the last crevice. We had made it. We were now standing on the best fishing spot on Crooked Creek. I breathed the humid air in deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of decomposing leaves and pollen. We spread out our supplies and baited our hooks, each of us claiming one side of the outcrop. I stretched and soaked up the sun's warm rays after casting my line. I closed my eyes and listened to the bubbling of the creek, sitting and waiting and simply enjoying life.
After a time I allowed my gaze to wander from my bobber and spotted a small dark object sticking out of the water. After studying it for a few seconds I could see how the ripples in the water played off it. It could not be a stick because only a little part of it protruded from the water and it navigated against the current's pull. It was a snake – and not just a copperhead or grass snake, but a water moccasin. I could tell because land snakes float on top of the water while water moccasins swim beneath the surface. Unfortunately, water moccasins are very poisonous and extremely territorial. It saw us and approached a small sand bar beside the ledge. I called out to Merry and warned her to take a look. She propped up her pole and came over to see. We decided we would not run away because we had worked so hard and come so far to get to the ledge. So I grabbed up rocks and she snatched up sticks and we chucked them at the writhing serpent. It finally grasped our intention and slithered back into the water. We knew better than to trust it, though. I kept watch and it came back soon trying to sneak up on us. I did not get to fish much since I kept having to stand up to drive the angry "landlord" away, but Merry finally felt a bite after an hour or so. The snake seemed to be gone for the moment, so I went to see what she'd caught. She pulled up the line, but the liver had been robbed off her hook. We were not sure what had taken it, but we imagined a really big fish – maybe even the white catfish. With rising excitement we baited up again. After a while I went back to my pole and watched for the water moccasin again. I felt a few nibbles, but could never snag anything. Suddenly Merry began to yell excitedly. I ran over and she was pulling and reeling in something big by the looks of her bowed pole. We both strained to see into the murky water. An ominous shape appeared, clipped the line, and sunk back into the mysterious darkness like a dark phantom.
"What was that?" I asked, but Merry just looked stumped. Whatever it was, though, was huge. Merry livered her hook again excitedly, casting it in the same spot to try to get the creature to bite again. I felt pretty sure that the thing would not fall for the same trick again, but just a few minutes afterwards I found myself running back, Merry's pole bending further than I had ever seen a fishing pole bend. It looked as though she had caught a small boulder. This time she pulled the line in faster to get the culprit before it could break her line. Our eyes went wide with horror and awe as a huge snapping turtle rose out of the murky depths, its jaws clapping fiercely.
"Get the net!" she yelled, "Before it breaks the line again!" I ran for the net and dashed back, but as the foot-long spiked reptile emerged halfway out of the water, he clamped his powerful beak shut and severed the line. The snapper fell back into its element with a glurp and we could never catch it again. We still have no idea what we would have done if we had been able to land it, but we still grumbled jokingly about losing the chance to try turtle soup. As we packed up the tackle box and reeled in our bobbers for the last time, we threw the last of the bait into the water, wishing the old alligator snapper good luck. Even though I did not catch a fish, I would never look at fishing as boring again.





KEIR & THE HORSEMAN
(unfinished)
by Vizon(Tavis) & Tari(Keir)



Keir wandered into the darkness, his pale hand tightly gripping the hilt of the bizarre instrument on his back...confused, and lost. Now...was it the turn south or west...couldn't recall... Suddenly strange hoof beats echoed throughout the cold night air. Keir accidentally banged the drum like protrusion of his 'mandolin' with his hip and winced with fear and anticipation. He crouched low against the ground, drawing his belt knife. The pounding grew louder and louder. Soon Keir could make out a shadow riding a dark horse, cloak whipping in the wind of the ride, steam pouring fiercely from the black, snorting animal as its perspiration met the chill air. Snarling to himself, and tensing until his pores beaded heavily with sweat, his grip tightened on his belt knife as his parka fluttered in the wrenching air. The steed rumbled past hurriedly, the rider's grey cloak disguising his appearance. The anonymous hood glanced briefly at Keir, jerking in surprise. He pulled the horse's reigns back quickly, finally bringing the black panting beast to a halt about 20 strides down from Keir's rigid form. Keir was, at this point, angry along with terrified, and he drew himself to his full, if not terribly impressive height, fixing the dark shape with unsettling pale eyes. Gesturing violently with his dagger, he hissed,
"What do you want?!" The rider looked down at the stranger. Keir could almost feel the cold glare emanating from the inner recesses of the grey hood,
"You look...out of place. Do you need assistance?" The horse's legs moved nervously, irritated at being held back.
Well, admittedly, yes, but Keir would not admit it to this strange, intimidating being who all but stunk of darkness and possible death for those in his sight...of course, he was probably overreacting, but still... Unconsciously plucking the bass strings strapped over his back, he muttered,
"No, perfectly comfortable...no, no...don't bother." The cloaked rider persisted,
"It is not safe out here...there are thieves everywhere. To travel alone is to condemn yourself to an untimely death. I can take you to an inn I know of." Keir shuddered slightly before he could quite control his emotions. The dark being was all but asking him to submit his safety to a stranger. The danger scent had increased...something Keir should have never been able to smell, and without a word, he stepped back, snarling viscously. The black shrouded horseman pushed back his hood, sensing Keir's distrust. His face had high cheek bones with a black moustache and a slight hint of a beard. His hair fell long behind him in a braid; a gold earring glittered in the moonlight. He had all the makings of a barbarian, "My name is Tavis." He held out a large rough hand in greeting. Keir still could not repress the animalistic fear and savagery growing within him...what on earth was happening?....Lost...lost in his own...mind... With a blood-wrenching howl, he collapsed onto his abdomen, drum-like protrusion pounding against his spine. Tavis drew back in alarm, having to pull back on the reigns as his horse began to dance around in irritation. He leapt easily off the horse and knelt down close to Keir,
"You all right?" He turned Keir over carefully, searching him for a wound he might have overlooked. Keir was gone...so to speak. A ravenous, tense creature croached in his mind, ready to strike. Keir had not eaten for so long, and his stomach was taut, his eyes were wide with insane desperation. With a cry, he twisted upward, slashing at his 'attacker' as the being came too close... Tavis jerked his face back in surprise,
"You must be either really ill, or possessed by some demon..." He reached for his water pouch, "Either way, it is obvious you need help...maybe this will calm your nerves." Keir leapt to his hands and knees, his nails tearing as they dug into the hard ground. What was the strange creature doing now? No mistakes...lest he be the one to die...no mistakes
Tavis stopped in his crouch, holding the water pouch back and looking at Keir. His face was like stone, but it hinted just enough at confusion to give his true thoughts away. Tavis's already slanted eyes narrowed even more as he tried to make out the true intentions of this stranger. Keir began to sway slowly, intently, his mouth stretching into a rictus grin. Something was etching at the back of his mind, but he ignored it...
Tavis waited, tense, watching for Keir's next move. All reason told Tavis that there would really be no reason for Keir to attack him, but the way this guy was acting was not reasonable...
Keir growled deep within his throat and struck, his belt knife glinting wide across Tavis' face. Tavis gripped the hand that held the knife - though a little late...he had not seen the weapon, enshrouded in the gray mist and he had not been entirely prepared for such a viscous assault. Now his face stung intensely and he could taste the blood running into his mouth. He gritted his teeth – and Keir's thinner wrist, bruising it. Tavis stood suddenly, bringing the struggling Keir's small form off his feet. Keir shrieked and kicked out...then went suddenly limp. Tavis growled. The little wretch had passed out. He threw Keir roughly to the ground as one might a rabid rat and wiped his bloody face...the gash was not deep enough to be fatal, but it was deep enough to leave a rather permanent scar. Tavis cursed the little man and remounted his horse. Keir did not stir; his mind locked in a petrified state...a frozen scene of internal, deadly conflict deep within his mind. The viscous swiping jaws of the fox and the calculating casualness of the minstrel were intertwined into one stone mask of spirit halting all thought and movement.
Tavis ran his hand across his face again, scowling at the blood it brought back and flicked the reigns. As the horse began to trot off, Tavis glanced back one last time. His own inner conflict was subconsciously influencing his horse's gait, slowing it to a walk now as he looked at the still, vulnerable figure sprawled on the ground. He knew that, by leaving, he was pretty much condemning the guy to death – and insane or not, Tavis did not believe he had the right to make that judgement. Tavis's inner struggle partially emerged as he spoke aloud, arguing with his conscience,
"But he just tried to kill me! Why should I do anything for him?" At last the instincts that had engraved themselves into his mind after years of protecting his tribe surfaced. He scowled and turned back, his horse grunting in mild protest as if to say Make up your mind already! Tavis stopped, his ebony shadow cast across the still form under the pallid moonlight. He dismounted and kicked the blade out of Keir's bony hand, then, as a second thought, picked it up and hid it in the unoccupied knife sheath of his right boot.
"You are a lucky lunatic. Most would have slit your throat..." He spoke in a low tone and lifted the limp body onto his horse, "Not that I don't trust you..." Tavis said with a note of sarcasm as he bound Keir's thin wrists. He took one last look around and sighed as he lifted himself back onto his steed for the second time. He snapped the reigns lightly, "One heck of a lucky lunatic."





SHUT UP YOU INSOLENT WEASEL
by Vizon(King) and Mel(Rebel)

An IM roleplay.



Shut up you insolent weasel! How many times must I put you back in your place with the worms of this filthy dredgeland? You will see just who runs things around here! And you shall pay dearly for your mistake!

Are you speaking to me? I of greater blood should see none of this torture...this backbreaking you call peasantry....Oh shall I? What evidence have you, you insolent cur!?

Greater blood only by half a king! I am half royalty as well, yet I am more capable than you who have only rolled in the muck all your life you pitiful excuse for a magnate!

Does the dirt on my hands define my fate?

But of course!

Thou art blind to the truth, oh great high and mighty half blood..... thou who surveys a kingdom of torture and curelty...

You haven't the true spirit of royalty! You, my scum of the earth, would not know a salad fork from a dessert fork let alone the ranks of strength of your court and army!

I want not to instigate such horrors....I would rather feel the lash of the whip than the sharp stains of crimson ever running down my limbs..... I care not for the title.....Your titles mean nothing to me... mere words....they do not define the soul.....

Stay in the filth you have grown to love - you were born in cattle's dung - go back to what you know.

Ah, yes.... raking in the muck.. day in and day out...

Don't think you can defeat me.

You should not be so cocky in temperment....

With a blink of my eye my personal guards will beat you to a bloody pulp! I would be more careful if I were you.

For even the scum can rise if the event calls for it.....I take not a care for my life, only the lives of my fellow comerades....

The only reason I am letting you stand where you are is because you are kin and I do - believe it or not - still have the roots of family loyalty - no matter how shame-faced they may be... You have a problem with my strategy?

Do you dare to define intelligence by the layer of bloated fat that is thus laid upon your self by your greed....? Look at my thin form, too wasted to be even defined by that birthrite any longer....Your strategy? Strategies are for those who have delusions of gradeur....I look at the world not through the eyes of a cartographer....

You, my friend, have no place here. Be off with you - a king's first step to defeat is idealism. Idealism.... only an illusion in this day and age....Rationalistic, cold calculation... that is the language of this corrupt and unjust world....

I can only please so many at once. Someone must suffer and it might as well be those who do not hold the gun to my head.

Ah... but they do..... figuratively, as you have taken their freedom of identity from them...you worthless greedy miser...

If your people are suffering so, you need to work on improving your own conditions - becoming king will not help you - it will only throw this land into chaos. And you will be crushed under the sudden weight of a dozen Duke's assassins breathing down your neck...

Let them come.....What good are you to bring to this wretched place.... Are you accusing me of poor judgement....?

Yes - for how can you comprehend such diplomatics?

I fear not my own death, but the death of a sick and failing nation.....At thine hands....

I fear the death of my country that I have finally balanced tentatively between wars and revolution

Ah... but revolution is the introduction to reform... as is the path of history.....

If anything breaks this intricate web, we will fall into pestilence and civil war. Your people will hate you more than me.

Those who wish the reform must push the revolution... and we are already in an age of pestilence...Just look at the scum beneath your polished boots....How have you the knowledge of hatred....unless that is your only drive in life....

That can not be helped! Your people bear the brunt of this society - but can you seriously believe that causing death of thousands will bring justice? War is not partial - all suffer - women and children included. I must take all my people into account.

For the good of the cause, for the good of the people, for the good of the country, my soul breathes free of all that surrounds it, reaching, groping for the ever unattainable goal....to bring light through this darkness to the future generations....

I am sorry that your people are discontented. I do what I can.

Ah, so now you come back to me...eh? Crying and asking for forgiveness.....Shall I trust thee now?

You see yourself as some savior? Bringing a new age of honey and blue skies in paper bags? It is only a dream...Must it be played out before your eyes before you see the truth?

I see truth.. I see the dream... I see the ultimate ends to this... as I have seen before...

You finally get the dukes under lock and key - pay off the soldiers and suddenly you have an invasion on you hands! Then the famine - and what will you do? Pour too much attention on one matter, and you have another matter stabbing you in your sleep!

The famine has already begun.... I am only one man.... I can only take so much....I am strong of soul and heart..... and shall lead as necessary, falling if I must...

You are a fool.

fool I may be... but we shall see what the future holds.....I shall plant the seeds.....

And only a few will survive to grow into weeds...

What greatness be you bringing to this land? Eh? Am I so corrupt and you righteous....?

Not greatness or righteousness- just enough control and leadership to keep this country going.

What good have you given to the soulless skeletal figures dragging themselves through this meager existence....

They have the land. Without me - if the government falls - we have five different countries on all sides just waiting to dive in for the kill. With out me - there is no land - even for your skeletal peoples. Revolution is not a solution, it is just another path to take - only it plunges into a sea of blood and violence and may never rise again.

Yes... you high and mighty on your throne... and need I mention ignorant? .......Are you blind, man, not to see the death of those before you... do you tread so softly on their graves as not to hear their insane whispers... These men are the living dead, they care not for their lives... what good will stagnation do to improve their situation....

You seem to have a mind of substance...I am sure there is a better solution for us both.

A truce, then, do you propose?

For instance - I am pondering at this moment, my personal solutions to your existence...Most would say the only solution is to have you executed or thrown in the dungeon for life.

Why? I have a right to be here just as you.....I may be emaciated, but I am still solid in the mind...

Listen to me! There IS another solution and it will solve more than one problem.

Alright, and you wish not to mutilate my physical ties to this world..... then what else do you propose, my leige!

You try my patience. Have a seat. Have a drink. And listen.

I shall, but be warned that I have no fear of you....Or your delusions....Speak, then, your highness....

You, my friend, have a problem with my rulings - you claim I intentionally force these field rats into poverty.

Your use of language speaks more than your implied intentions.....I know this as so...

I, on the other hand, am having trouble with the peasants who, with their lack of education and skills, are condemning themselves.

But what have you done for change.....? Lack of education....! and who is to supply this needed knowlege, pray tell.....

Silence! For one blasted second! My patience is wearing thin and my guards figit beyond my door.

Fine... I shall listen....Speak.....then... if you must test your ego....

I certainly can not release you again to round up and rally more peasants into rebellion - even you must realize I am not such a fool.

Only a fool of principles, but not of my nature... no.

You fear them... thus you are smart to their actions...

MY proposal..... is that you become an advisor in my court.

Ah.... I see.....Why, if I may ask... to make for an easier and justifiable assassination?

MUST I remind you that the only reason you are not on the chopping block at this very moment is because of MY very whim?

I understand this......But why? am I to be a valued servant....

You must, of course, stay within these fortress walls - but believe me when I say to you that this will do your "people" and this entire country more good than a revolution. It is simple.

relate, and I shall contemplate

I have trouble with the peasants - you help me calm them down by proposing your own solutions.....within reason, of course.

That is because they fail to see past the amount of flesh haniging off your bones.... they see nothing of the man inside....

I have not the time and resources to invest in the backwash of society - I will leave that up to you.

I shall do as you say, my leige.....

Thus - you are still their leader and patriot and I am still their king.

Yes... I accept this....Within the amount of trust that is bestowed to one who can give what they offer, of course....

I expect you to remain within these walls at all times....perhaps over time I shall give you leave when it is advantagious...But for now, you must understand I do not trust you....

I accept these conditions.. for now....Do you think I bestow any greater trust to thee?

I would be a fool to think otherwise...GUARDS!

Yes, I would agree with you there....

Then it is mutual....Take this man to the west wing..

Strike me down if you will.....Take me and bind me.... but know, you cannot bind my soul in chains...I shall fly again, triumphant....!

They are simply an escort...I have no intention of striking OR binding you...

Oh, well, I am sorry for that outburst...

(peasants...)

malnourishment does wonders to the brain stability...

You shall be provided ample sustinance. Now go........and rest.

Thank you.... that is a must if you wish for me to be the best underling that I can possibly be.....

I have a long night of work ahead of me....a king never rests......





THE FORGOTTEN

Civil War, Southern POV



"Louisiana's seceded!" I remember how excited we all were that day. We whooped and hollered fer a good long time 'cause we was sick of them money-grubbin' Yankees taxin' us and usin' us to their advantage. We were gonna push off shore now – be on our own. Pa said he was glad 'cause he'd had enough of them materialistic vagabond Yanks flockin' down and takin' advantage of us plain hardworkin' folks. We were different from them and we were no longer fit ta be part of their system. They'd been suckin' the life out of our state for a long time and we'd had enough. Most of the money we paid the government we never saw the benefit it brought – if any. It was as though they were all growin' stronger offa our backs and we were bein' stood upon like dogs. So we broke off ta be on our own like the constitution of freedom stated. Fer some reason, 'cause they had the advantage of numbers, they thought they could push us around, but we'd show them. We were founded under freedom of the people and now we was initiatin' that God-given right. We said we didn't want ta be united with them any more and that was that. But I guess they decided they wouldn't be lettin' us go any time soon. I'm not sure exactly when it started, but soon there was fightin'. It got ta where the only way they'd take us seriously was if we made them. I guess they got too comfortable usin' the Confederate states like a footstool and would do all they could ta keep us under foot. Well we had news fer them. We weren't about ta be no man's dogs.
Me and Titus - we were both too young and our Ma's wouldn't hear of our joining the army until we were at least eighteen. So we worked hard at home ta support our families since our Pa's had already gone and joined. I looked fer any excuse ta ride into town so's I'd be sure ta hear any news. We were sure it'd all be over before we'd be able to enlist, but then about a year or so later we heard Union troops had invaded Louisiana. Titus and me decided we were old enough – even though we were still both seventeen. We took off and joined the army. Our Ma's probably weren't too happy, but Titus said he figured they needed us keepin' the Yankees at bay more than cuttin' hay at home. I had to agree with that.
So after our initial training we were assigned to the Crosshaven Cavaliers. We all slept in canvas tents and were pretty miserable. There was lots of mud and 'skeeters and bugs. Soon it got ta where everybody was yearnin' fer home. I thought army life would be exciting, but really it was just plain dull. They drilled and exercised us every day from 5 in the mornin' 'til sunset. Things went pretty much the same fer a long time. I remember the time Taney's sweetheart came and brought fresh tamaters, though. All of us were glad fer that 'cause rations were scarce and some of us were feelin' the effects of scurvy even. There were some of the most ill-mannered men there, too – always on the lookout fer somethin' ta relieve their boredom whether it be another soldier or a hurt squirrel. They'd gamble and play cards and drink. They smoked and chewed tobacco too, but everybody smoked or chewed tobacco – even Titus and me. It's just somethin' ya did in the army. I was careful ta stay away from the bad stuff, mind you, but some of them fellers was so free with their speech it woulda sent any decent girl ta faintin'. Titus and me stuck together and found other ways ta occupy ourselves. I remember one day we set up a rope across two poles and had ant races. It actually attracted a lot of men and soon everybody was bettin' on which ant would beat the other'n to the end of the rope. My ant was winnin' fer the first few races, but then he got squashed by accident. The next day we got up ta start marchin' more north ta help make a sort'a wall ta keep the Yankees back. It was a long march. Some of the guys were sick and had to be helped along and most of us had awful blisters 'cause our boots didn't seem ta wear quite right. It was times like those that I regretted not bringin' a horse, but I hadn't 'cause they're really Pa's and not mine and I wasn't sure if I should take one without askin' first. I wasn't about ta ask Ma 'cause if she'd 'a found out I was takin' off ta join the army she'd've tied me to a chair and Titus woulda had to go alone. Titus' family only had a few horses and needed every one of 'em so I guess it was good that I hadn't taken a horse 'cause then he would'a had ta walk while I rode. We might've even been separated fer all I know. Titus has always been my good friend. We grew up together. I remember catchin' lightnin' bugs and puttin' them in lanterns and runnin' off after lunch ta swim at the creek. We were often gettin' inta trouble, but never nothin' too serious. Just boys havin' fun. Now we were men, though – and soldiers. We were both pretty good shots with our guns, but we'd never really been in a real battle.
We were just about three day's distance from Fort Jackson and the sky was all cloudy. Everything was wet and chilly, but that was fine with me 'cause usually we were all real hot in our uniforms. We was assigned ta guard a bridge that was the only crossin' fer miles. We knew there was Federals coming, so Titus an' me waited. After a long while it seemed no one was coming so we stood there and started talking a bit about home and the letter Titus got the other day from his girl. Then suddenly there was some shootin'. Guys started falling all around us. Titus and me got down quick. Taney was the first man I ever saw die. He fell after bein' shot in the head and his eyes was starin' right at me. That scared me enough to get movin'. We crawled to a shallow ditch and started loadin' our guns. There wasn't much room to work in, but we did our best. The trees around us rapped with bullets and shredded leaves fell down all around us. After gettin' off one er two shaky shots at the Federals we started gettin' faster and more accurate. We heard our boys' yelling as well as rammers resonatin' and gunlocks clickin' close-by, so we knew we wern't alone. We bit off cartridge after cartridge 'til all we tasted was gritty powder, but we kep' at it. I was reachin' up ta ram my muzzle again when I felt the force of a bullet. I didn't even realize I was on the ground 'til I saw Titus above me lookin' all worried. I felt with my fingers and found the hole the bullet tore just at the bottom right b'tween my neck an' shoulder. I knew it was bad by the look on Titus' face. I wanted ta tell him ta leave me alone and go take out a few Yankees while he could. I wanted ta tell him I wished I was home. I wanted ta say how much it hurt, but I couldn't say nothin'. It wouldn't come out. All I could do was choke on my own words and look at him. Finally I got somethin' out after tryin' enough, though it came as just a hoarse whisper.
"What was it we're fightin' fer again Titus?" He kept his hands ta my wound, though we both knew it wasn't gonna do much.
"Fer Independence, Miah. We're gonna be a free nation."





THE MARG

Sci-fi short story with novel potential



As the trollig Vice lead Wes down the center of the road, he pointed out the various developments and features: a factory where they manufactured transportation units, a clothing store, a bakery, a power mill – all remarkably parallel to earthen settlements. There were differences, of course, but Wes felt that he could truly relate to these alien people. They were sentient beings with a similar way of life. The Vice pointed at a strange-looking building and told Wes that it was where they made skitch. Wes was wondering what the heck a skitch was and was about to ask when he spotted a herd of strange green ungulate creatures being unloaded from a large transportation unit. Wes was intrigued.
"What's that place?" he asked, pointing toward the building the creatures were being herded into. It took a moment for the language card to translate, and then the Vice's answer was relayed, words tainted by a robotic echo.
"That is our meat processing factory." Wes was morbidly curious. What would an alien slaughterhouse look like?
"May we go see it?" he inquired politely. The Vice listened to his own card, then "smiled" his unnerving alien smile,
"Of course...follow me." The Vice began to walk away toward the processing plant before the translating card had even finished. Wes followed quickly.
Upon reaching the gate, Wes stared, transfixed by the alien livestock.
"So this is what an alien cow looks like, eh?" The vice inclined his barbed head,
"Yes...these are Margs." Wes raised his eyebrows, recognizing the name from last night's banquet.
"So this is what I ate? This is the blue steak?"
"Yes," the vice replied, glancing briefly at the animals and sniffing in what seemed to Wes, distaste. "Of course, that is not the natural color," the crisp, mechanized voice announced after the Vice spat out a few incomprehensible vocalizations. Then it continued, "When raw, the flesh is purple. It is only when it is properly boiled and spiced that is becomes the pleasing blue hue." Wes nodded, still staring at the creatures. They were a rich, velvety green color – the sheen of their coats undoubtedly caused by some sort of oil glands. The most interesting thing about these creatures was that they had bright red tentacle-like growths on their heads and backs that tapered into dainty points. He remembered the Vice's mate wearing a sort of fancy scarf made from such tentacles. "Tentacle", though, was not quite the right word to describe them. When one hears the word "tentacle", it brings to mind the slimy gray appendages of a squid or octopus. These tentacles were pleasing to look upon. They were soft looking and almost sparkling with a sort of thin down coating, as you might observe on a chick. Yet the hairs were transparent and gleamed individually, as might glitter. Wes wondered if aliens found the regular beef cattle of earth beautiful too. As he observed, one of the "cows" looked straight at him, and suddenly he felt a chill run up his spine. Indeed, the most remarkable things about these creatures were their eyes. Unlike earth's cows that stared stupidly while chewing their cud, these creatures seemed to be studying him right back. The Vice let out a breath of air heavily and drew his mandibles together tightly, glancing around as if seeking something more interesting to look upon. Wes decided that he had gazed at the green alien cattle long enough and turned back to the Vice.
"You don't waste one ounce of them do you? I've seen lots of clothing made from the hides and hats with the red tentacles – plus you eat them."
"Yes. We are very efficient with the margs. In a lifetime, one marg can produce an average of 118 hams a year." Wes looked confused, not sure if the card was translating correctly.
"Hams? Like...legs?"
"Limbs, yes," the Vice restated.
"How?" Wes was incredulous. The Vice's eyes clicked with a blink,
"They are regenerative, of course." At last Wes understood.
"Oh – so they re-grow their limbs?" The Vice nodded wearily as though everyone ought to know such elementary things. Wes looked back at the green creatures and saw they were being directed into a chute. As they walked he noticed that most had an awkward sort of gate as though their legs were different lengths. "May I see the procedure?" He found it hard to imagine. The Vice straightened his dark suit and replied, the language card translating belatedly,
"If you wish." He gestured at another trollig with a clawed hand, the edges of the phalanges clipping together in a scissor-like manner. "Chifka will take you on a tour. I will meet you in the office...I cannot stand the stench." Wes thanked him and followed the other trollig into the meat plant. Surrounded by machinery and a lingering sour aroma that made his stomach turn, Wes began to regret his eagerness. The trollig pointed at a metal chute remarkably similar to those used in Wes' home planet and muttered something in the strange trolligan language. Wes waited for the translation.
"Where the marg begin processing."
"What does this machine do?" Wes pointed at a humming piece of equipment off to one side that had strange, branching pipes feeding into it. When the trollig only stared at him and gave no answer, he realized that this trollig did not have a language card. So he just shrugged – a very human gesture and most likely not understood, but he didn't really care. He watched as marg after marg filed through the chute and then the trollig led him along beside the metal rails so that he was keeping pace with one of the creatures. This particular marg was more silvery than green. Wes wondered if it was a sign of old age or simply a different breed variation. The marg glared at him and made a lowing noise through its nose horn. Wes stared back, meeting the creature's gaze and continued to walk until a loud clicking slur reached his ears. Suddenly he realized that the trollig had been speaking to him. As he rejoined his guide, the trollig spoke again - this time near enough for the card to translate.
"You must stay close to me, ambassador, the processing is dangerous." Wes nodded, not caring if the trollig knew what it meant and watched as the smaller chutes leading from individual loading corrals converged into one large shaft. The chute was designed to force each animal through one at a time, one after another. Trolligs lined the marg walkway with prods and thin clubs tipped with sharp needle-like points. Wes supposed these trolligs kept the line moving and was not surprised when one small marg stopped and planted its hooves, bawling loudly. The marg behind it nudged it but it only bawled louder. Within seconds a trollig had jammed a prod through the bars and jolted it into action. The line continued marching, pausing before a bulge in the chute where machines whirled and buzzed. Wes approached the halted form of the silvery marg just as a loud bellow split the air. He flinched at the sound, and, as he drew nearer saw one of the animals limping away down the latter end of the chute, prodded along on three legs. Wes noted the dome-like bulge in the chute just ahead of the silvery marg where hoses kept a platform washed with an oily-looking liquid. It reminded Wes of the automatic car washes of earth. The silvery beast was forced into the bulge next by a quick jab from a trollig's needle club. Metallic appendages reached out and held it still as a huge, jagged-toothed saw came up in an arch and ground into its left forelimb, shredding quickly through the flesh but stalling as it came into contact with the denser bone. The silvery marg roared in obvious pain, dark violet blood rushing from the gaping wound and spattering the protective shield around it. The running liquid swirled with purple rivulets at the beast's feet as it convulsed in the iron grip. Wes stepped back, horrified as the heartless machine finished slicing the silvery leg off and slapped it onto a sort of conveyer belt. He turned, bent over, and wretched.
His was a rather cushy job at the space embassy, and rarely did he observe anything so hideously violent and real. After composing himself, Wes wiped the edges of his mouth, glancing back at the scene he had turned from. The floor was washed clean as though nothing had happened at all and the marg was already limping away. It stumbled once, quivering and was immediately shocked into action by a prod. As it moved on Wes was surprised to see that the blood flow had already stopped. He turned to the guide,
"I've – I've seen enough. Take me to Vice Turksca please..." The trollig seemed to get the point and took him to the office where the Vice was sitting in a marg leather chair sipping some sort of dark violet drink. Wes did not want to know what it was. Somehow the processing factory had nullified any other curiosity he had had for this alien civilization. "So what did you think?" The Vice "smiled". Wes swallowed and sat in the chair across from the Vice, conscientiously touching the velvety green hide.
"It...was shocking..." The Vice let out a laugh, like metal twisting against metal,
"Well what did you expect?" the translation card said in its emotionless, automated voice, "No less shocking than your meat factories...in fact, I may even venture to say that ours are more efficient, for we can re-use the same creature for up to seventy years." Wes was not much of an animal rights type of guy, but he was pretty sure earth's processing plants were not this bad. On earth at least they were dead before they started cutting them up. This was torture, not efficiency. Wes couldn't help but wonder how many times the silver marg had been put through that agony. He was appalled at the lack of humanity shown in these people. Wes chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Of course they lacked humanity. They weren't humans. How could he expect them abide by human standards? The Vice continued to elaborate. "The marg are the most valuable of the conquered races. No others have been able serve us as well as they do." Wes felt his throat go dry,
"Races?" he stuttered. The vice smiled,
"Yes...quite like your own conquering of races. If I am not mistaken, you consistently have to eliminate the other races on your planet when they grow too large in numbers. The wolves, the bears – they are a threat to your success. It is either you or them and, of course, the more intelligent race conquers all, correct?" Wes nodded dumbly as the Vice leaned back with a hissing sigh. "We have that in common. We are the master species of our planets." It was true. Humans could not allow bears to roam the streets when their children were out playing, but something was not right with the trollig's analogy. The Vice continued. "Some of the races you've conquered are useful and can be harvested instead of destroyed. Consider our margs similar to your chickens and swine. A conquered race, put to good use." Wes was bothered. Why did the vice keep using the word "race" instead of "animal" or "species"? Could it be a fault in the language card? He lifted the card from the gold chain about his neck and typed in "race" and then selected "define". The tiny screen blanked and then filled with words,
>Race: A family, tribe, people, or nation of sentient beings. A class of or physically distinctive group of people unified by community, language, culture, and characteristics.<
Wes' throat tightened. He had to be sure.
"Are the margs...sentient?" His forehead furrowed deeply. The Vice laughed,
"Of course...what would be the point of conquering non-sentients? They offer no competition and they have no minds to control. They need no conquering because they conquer themselves." Wes felt confused.
"But – but our chickens are not sentient. They aren't intelligent, thinking beings. They don't fight chicken wars, raise up chicken civilizations and culture and create chicken inventions. They don't have values like we do. They exist by instinct. They don't know things like humans..." The Vice seemed taken aback,
"Why would you spend time imprisoning stupid non-sentients when you have intelligent enemies fighting to take over your lands and resources? There is no glory in feasting on the flesh of dumb beasts." Then the Vice chuckled, "I make a mistake – the marg are dumb beasts. They do not win wars. They are inferior to trollig intellect. That is why we eat margs instead of margs eating trolligs. They are losers in the struggle for dominance. We are the elite. We are the chosen planetary masters, and they are to us like the dirt beneath our feet." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms up imperiously. Wes could hardly speak.
"We humans have no sentient competitors. We have carnivores that are dangerous and herbivores that eat our food, but they aren't civilized, thinking people. When we invented weapons to shoot them they didn't make their own weapons to fight back. The closest we've come to what you speak of is when humans fought humans."
"It is odd indeed to hear that you humans have no other sentients on your planet and that you capture and farm non-sentients, but it is basically the same concept." Wes' mind raced. Were the marg really an enslaved people? They looked so much like cows...animals. It must be a mistake. But then Wes recalled the looks in their eyes. They had not been dumbly chewing hay, oblivious to the future. They knew. Their eyes were empty not because they were stupid brutes, but because they were a broken people, resigned to an uncontrollable fate at the hands of their enemy. Beaten into submission until they had no spirit left. It was despair he had witnessed. The Vice interrupted his thoughts after a long pause of silence. "You should return to your quarters. You do not want to overdo it on your first day." His mandibles stretched into the learned smile and soon Wes found himself walking numbly back to the palace. It was almost time for dinner and he was feeling sick despite the required vaccinations he'd received before taking off in the shuttle. He did not think he would be able to look at, let alone eat more marg steak after his diplomatic tour.
Wes apologized in advance for missing the evening trollig meal and then shut himself in his room saying he was ill. He ate some earth food from his pack and then sat down to mull over the day's happenings, trying to decide what to do. He wanted to take immediate action and report the atrocity the trolligs were a part of and convince his fellow human beings to aid him in freeing the margs, but he was not sure the move would be wise. He had no way of knowing whether the transmission could be intercepted either. Wes tapped his fingers lightly against the ivory-like tabletop and decided to contact his friend Douglass Henckle with a private transmission to ask for advice. He selected the appropriate name, line, and code and waited for Douglass to answer. After a moment a man appeared on the console and smiled,
"What's up, Wes?" Wes smiled back, happy to see a familiar human face.
"Hey Doug. I'd like your input on something." Douglass grunted and nodded, waiting for him to continue. Wes explained his situation, emphasizing the need for action. "This is not an alliance we want – these trolligs are monsters. For all we know, we may be next!" Douglass sighed and sat back, glaring seriously at Wes through the screen.
"Look, Wes, I understand there are some ethical clashes, but there's not much we can do about it. The reason we are able to form an alliance at all is because we have promised not to settle on their planet and they have promised not to colonize ours in return. In their eyes we are universal brethren, both destined to conquer our designated worlds. This treaty is crucial in keeping peace with this powerful alien civilization. The trolligs are as numerous and powerful as we humans, and are thus, valued more as allies than enemies." Wes looked away, finding his friend's words difficult to digest. "Hey man, I'm not just saying this to tick you off. The Associated Presidents of Earth will do almost anything – including overlooking the marg situation – to stay in good standings with the trolligs. This is too important." Wes glared at Douglass,
"How can you sit there and decide that it is okay for these people to suffer? You don't understand what they are doing! You didn't see what I saw..."
"Wes...promise me you won't do anything stupid. You don't want to start the first interstellar war, do you?" Wes looked down,
"No, but I don't feel right blowing off the fact that the people of earth are signing peace agreements with the alien equivalent to Nazis."
"I know...I know. But maybe they can learn from us – who knows?" Wes sighed, his shoulders slumping and nodded unenthusiastically.
"Maybe."
"Look, I gotta go, Wes. I'll talk to you later, all right?" Wes nodded again and gave Douglass a weary, single-fingered salute. After the screen went blank, he stared out the window into the alien night, watching the dark lunar clouds swirl across the sky.
"We are selling our souls to live another day..."





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