so curse not

The goddesses bear us from this coast to that; they carry the skinny and also the fat. We can't rightly see them, or make out their forms but bask in their love-shine (which makes us feel warm). Their presence at times they reveal with numbers, with duplicates, triplicates, one-two-three-fours, with lights in the darkness and held-open doors. So curse not the delays nor lay on the horn for we all were birthed once, we're all woman-borne, and treat one another with kindness and grace, this tragic, misguided, jolly human race.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian bread

Much talk can be mustered and rumors be spread about how Grigovians cherish their bread. They like it in daytime and when it is night, they like when it's crispy, when not baked quite right. They'll eat it for breakfast, for lunch and din-dins, for “If there's bread baking then everyone wins.” When baked in an oven its smell will arouse the passions of all nearby gathering crowds, when given out freely to all passersby there won't be one single eye-socket left dry. It's made from just one or two ingredients, among them sage, thyme, and leaves from healing plants, that then get mixed into a base of nut flour, that's then left to sit for at least fourteen hours. “The hotter the better,” is what most cooks say, but some still prefer the more old-fashioned way of keeping the oven at much lower temps and opening up just its lower-most vents. So strong is this powerful, life-giving bread that some have accused it of waking the dead, like back when a woman who'd been gone a week did smell it and suddenly get rosy cheeks. While much can be said for it words won't suffice, the smell of it strongly one's nostrils entice, the feel of it lingers and sours the tongue – for ages its praises will surely be sung.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and her ken

He wanted to grasp her and win her applause but her gathered family did give him much pause, for he had the feeling that it would not do to just bag and leave her like week-old dog poo. Besides his was a weakened urge since he had voided, spent, and purged and spilled his manhood on a Red Chinese who'd greeted his passions with 'Thank you' and 'Please'. He spoke to the family, made himself one with their type of humor and their brand of fun, he drank, laughed, and joked with them for four days and nights, did not see much anger, no serious fights. If he'd pushed or forced something before its time it would have weighed heavily against his mind, so he at times sat back to give her her space and not once invited her up to his place. He dared not to wish anything for himself but Happiness, patience, and long-lasting health but sent a plea up to the most loving gods to bless the girl's family through mounting odds. Wise Nuuzstathena and fair Aprodit heard each gentle syllable, each spoken word, and promised to shelter the girl and her ken from other aggressive and confident men. He would keep on traveling, that much he knew, there was not much else that he knew how to do, keep drinking the waters of lands all around, wherever his boots did leave marks in the ground.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

they know no

There lies fairly nestled in a mountain bowl a bright, tiny cottage not modern nor old that houses a widow, her children (and theirs) who sleep in the cupboards or curled up on stairs. They forage for berry and honey and nut to bring back to their clean and water-tight hut, they know no convenience but never complain, assured that such action their honor would stain. One day while out planting her seeds in the loam the widow was harassed by an angry gnome who swore he would fill her life with woe and dread if he weren't allowed to occupy her bed. Without hesitation the old lass complied and ushered the short-round straight to the inside where he promptly sat down and ate up their food – his hunger was massive, his noises were rude. After they'd been sent to bed with hunger pangs the children did gather and cook up a plan to rid themselves and their fair home of its guest, that unwanted, hungry, and foul-tempered pest. The next day they told him of a special place where there were some females of his minish race; they said that it lay in the mountains above where he would be welcomed and showered with love. The gnome wanted nothing to do with the notion so the oldest daughter she mixed up a potion that put the intruder into a deep sleep – he fell to the floor and lay there in a heap. The children then carried the wee, tiny man (who fit into the smallest of frying pans) up to a small temple set high on a peak where he'd sleep and slumber for nearly a week. They prayed to the goddess who sheltered therein and asked her to bless their home, future, and kin, to erase the mind of the gnome when he woke, to keep him alive though and not let him choke. They never did hear what became of the man but prided themselves on their impromptu plan that freed them from that which had plagued them and theirs, their siblings whose beds were nooks, crannies, and stairs.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

but rather resigned

The signals got mixed up (the wrong ones were sent) so that when the telegram finally went there were no recipients, no one to sign, not one soul to scribble on the dotted line. The fools who had written it sat back ashamed for there were no underlings left they could blame, but rather resigned to their sure, coming fate decided to sleep in, to slumber 'till late. The staff at Grigovian Anti-Spion had that day declared all its battles to've won; it did this to flush out foul enemy spies by tricking them into text-messaging lies, by fooling them into sending telegrams, by scheduling meetings on boats, trains, and trams. In this tricky manner were great numbers caught, more than the planners originally thought, so that our fine country is safe once again, at least from those traitorous women and men – who knows whom our enemies to us will send.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥