from further west

In the early springtime of 1804 an enemy stood in our foothills and moors, it was not a Russian or from further west, instead it was sickness – the dreaded Black Pest. It marched on the heels of a deep prolonged drought, it tore at all people (priest midwife and lout), it was a tenacious and deadly disease that all but had forced us down onto our knees. Some doctors from Iysh that lies in the north discovered the Sharpstand's medicinal worth, applied it to boils that covered the skin, infused it in tonics that healed from within. They shared their new knowledge with peers far and wide, who watched as the skins of their patients soon dried, soon ceased with rank seeping, soon lost their red hue, within but a fortnight the weak sprung up new. The Pest it was vanquished by what was once weed, lowly Mountain Sharpstand met our greatest need, and saved us from decades of hardship and woe, we now still turn to it and make sure it grows in valleys and households, hospitals and fields, who knows just what benefits it may yet yield.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

pile and heave

They rested a fortnight upon the Great Stair: of game there was plenty; the weather stayed fair. As soon as the stormheads did pile and heave they packed their belongings and took their due leave and trod from the summit which they had called home, took pelt spear and rations left nothing but loam. Through little-known passages they made their way with nary a waver and not much delay they crept through the Wilds and dodged the patrols of dark King Luzari and his hated trolls. There was but one victim (he died of old age), they lowered him into a too-shallow cage of rock stone and earthen clods out on the heath with coins on his eyelids and sage in his teeth. Then upon returning they found their stead burned by bastard Luzari and his churlish worms, did stay for a while and searched high and low, let not foul impatience nor cruel worry grow. Marked deep in a cavern a message they found it said that their kin had fled to higher ground, they rushed to the Heights with deliberate speed rejoicing at finding the well-hidden lead. They found there their clansmen and clanswomen too and whipped up a rabbit and venison stew and performed their customs and prepared a feast and prayed to the Father who's born in the east. They stayed there the winter, as snow the trees bent, then off to the high Land of Plenty they went where their dark-haired children grew tall great and strong, made merry and hunted, spun yarn tale and song.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

oh nameless Mother

All hail now the mighty compassionate one whose horse is a nightmare who flies with the sun who visits us when we are lonely and small who lifts up the spirits and helps us stand tall. We call her but Mother, we won't say her name, we ask that she shelter strong weak wild or tame, great puny or powerful, hirsute or short, with skins quite unblemished or covered in warts. Her gaze is far-reaching her mercy is vast, she touches all peoples regardless of class, regardless of heritage lowly or proud, she pierces cloak disguise lie falsehood and shroud. There is not another her power can beat wherefore she's the queen of all pathways and streets, of home hearth tree meadow stair village and town, so know of her glory and sing her renown.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in the sty

Her bed was a mat made of tightly-wound straw; a mud-splattered pigsty was all the girl saw. She lived in the sty by her stepmother's choice with no human contact with no right to voice her daydreams and passions and all she'd been taught by pig ant and horsefly (of which there were lots). She'd wait for the swine to eat their daily fill of watered-down muesli and other such swill then scraped at the corners of their wooden trough – it kept her alive but was barely enough. Her clothes became tattered and worn through and through while her young half-sister got threads bright and new, was dressed in fine silken and shimmering robes and got tiny diamonds put in her earlobes. The sty-bound first daughter was ugly, you see, by her deceased mother's genetic decree, whom father had knocked up when he was a teen with salt in his currents and rage in his spleen. The newer addition was beautiful though with raven-like hair and skin as white as snow; her older blood-sibling would twitch shake then seize and splay her webbed toe-joints whenever she sneezed. The outcast grew slowly, her muscles were weak, although with her beasts she soon enough could speak, could see by each habit and movement and walk more than most mere humans convey when they talk. Her kindness was massive her compassion too her spirit and mercy they blossomed and grew, she then started praying (to whom she knew not), was thankful for her pitiful meager lot. A Goddess did hear her, sleek silent Oumbast, did send out a pussy to visit at last, its soft furry body did warm comfort feed the sty-bound first daughter in her time of need. On mouse rodent bunny the girl then grew strong and fled from the confines she had known so long, and became a healer of animals all, of horse cow and donkey of beast great and small. Her sister however was naught but a pest, swore at her own parents and tore every dress, then fled with a sailor to his foetid shore and lived in the manner of a spoiled whore.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

hill and woodside

She slipped from her swaddle and rushed out the door and of her fair countenance was seen no more. The deep woods did swallow her, the mom would say, while wailing and pleading to all who would stay e'en for a few moments at her home's front stoop through which her young daughter had once flown the coop. There was a search party that sallied in vain that combed hill- and wood-side through hail snow and rain that of the wee maiden found not hide nor hair while chased through the brush by wolf boar and brown-bear. Like all young and innocent who just vanish in ways unexplainable and outlandish the girl felt not anything akin to fear for Nuuzstathena was suddenly near and saved the sweet child and took her afar and transformed her weary bones into a star. It sparkles and shimmers most nights in the east just below Orion's still-struggling beast; weep not for the little ones – Goddess keeps watch and hers is a gentle and merciful touch.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

sewing her clover

There once was a goddess, the Maiden of Spring, who did a most curious and mischievous thing – she holed herself up in a dank sodden cave enraptured by a handsome, dastardly knave. He'd spied her when life was beginning to teem, out walking in snowbanks from which budded green, and trapped her with cunning and love's sweet promise without even gracing her lips with a kiss. Forthwith to his light-starved and troglodyte lair is where he then took her, the Maiden so fair, and fed her with roots that grew deep down below until field and mountain was covered in snow. Our heroine then yearned to make her escape, to see the broad sunlit vast upper landscapes; she slipped from the grasps of her erstwhile lover to walk in the snowy fields sewing clover. As soon as the hot sun and warm winds did blow she longed her dark paramour once more to know and crept without making e'en one undue sound back down to his hidey-hole far underground. It's there that she winters and shelters from Fall until she is tugged pulled compelled dragged and called once more to the surface her deeds there to do, to make life erupt again, verdant and new.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on PAPIWA

We're hosting a conference for all West Asia so come ye great peoples to Grigovia and hash out the problems that we all now share – water conservation and Ynki's cruel stare. Some fine delegations are settling in: Iran Turk Kurd Uzbek Afghan and Chechen are here ready waiting and primed to begin, while Rus Turkmen Arab refused to join in. PAPIWA is a grounded fantasia (Peace and Prosperity in Western Asia); come sing with us its fleet inaugural hymn; to get here fly walk ride crawl tunnel or swim. Discussions and panels are planned for these days to deal with America's foul warlike ways, to find methods for keeping citizens rich and countering crude oil's sting burden itch. We'll talk about clean and renewable paths to pull energy from the sun's ceaseless wrath, to pull from wind above and lava below the juice that we need to make our cities glow. Together we'll find many peaceful accords, solutions to issues that don't involve war, new friendships and markets and such blessed things that give hope sustainable and solid wings. Our door's always open if you come in peace, if not though (like Ynki) we will never cease to avoid and hamper and disrupt our foe, to crush his advances and bloody his nose.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on craggy Iylianna

There is a formation high up on a crag that we call Iylianna (i.e. Crone or Hag) – it looks like the face of a shriveled old witch who'd beat back her neighbors with broom pot and switch. She vanished from view many long years ago, her body was not found (to where did she go?), her legend lives on in a lofty rock-face, in that inaccessible mountainous place. To see it go climb to the top of a spire and make sure the view isn't cloudy or mired by surrounding buildings or smog or darkness then turn you your body to point to the west. From Grig it is visible, it will delight, its contours do make a most impressive sight, so go now and look for it, it's trouble worth, to see Iylianna in her stony berth.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥