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

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

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

things on time

Her rhythm is true and her grace is sublime, she is Dah'zhou – mistress of all things on-time. She favors such people as know when to wake, like soldiers and doctors and persons who bake, like teachers and bankers and most household staff, who wake up at dawn before drawing a bath. She rides with her sister – fair, rose-fingered Dawn – in a golden chariot they're pulled along, that's spanned to two felines who lift soft paws high as they race and scamper across morning's sky. The two make much merriment while they complete their circuits through sunshine, rain, hail, wind, and sleet, sheltered from the weather and foul airs without in an airborne, golden, and mobile redoubt. Dah'zhou keeps no log-book, she gives few rewards, she won't punish people who would rather snore than get up and get out and tackle the day, who choose between warm, downy covers to stay. Instead she's been known to bring to life inside such persons who wake early an honest pride that stays with them long after darkness descends, that buoys their labors and infects their friends. So next time you find yourself wanting to snooze, remember there is more to gain than to lose, by waking up early and fleeing from bed with joy in your heart and a clear, rested head.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

mountains of riches

Ours is a robust, diverse economy; we farm many bushes, not just one main tree. In our desert regions grow figs, sheep, and dates; in Iysh are planted vast hectares of grapes; from Grig (our fine capital) clear to the west is where we've found apples and barley grow best. We harvest mine tailings left over from when the Soviets enslaved our shortest, strongest men and sent them to toil deep down underground where mountains of riches and death could be found. There are many minerals, some rare-earth too, there's goose, duck, and rabbit that taste good in stew, for curries and turmeric we're widely famed, for pelts, shoes, and pouches sewn from wild-caught game. These things are protected by a ministry (the People's Collective for Rock, Beast, and Tree) that answers to all citizens living here in a referendum at least once a year. We import as few foreign goods are we can, preferring to till, mine, and milk our land. To keep ourselves free from state-sponsored invaders we plant rice, beans, eggplant, corn, squash, and potaters. We're looking for labor, we pay well and fair, we're not prone to suffer from food shortage scares, so come to Grigovia ye one and all, 'till now we've avoided the global free-fall that's plaguing our neighbors, our friends wide and far, who now wish to steer by our small nation's star. All hail to the Goddesses who number Ten, for how they have blessed us and our verdant fen, we lift up our praises, we make offerings, we give thanks for living like queens and like kings.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

its raw volunteers

The 9th Mountain Rangers are calling to arms all young men and women from cities and farms, from hamlets, skyscrapers, suburbs near and far, there's no need to prepare just come as you are. The 9th has been shaping its raw volunteers into hardened soldiers for 200 years, first formed during conflict in 1813 ours is still a tight-knit and family-like team. We instruct in aspects of modern war-making, in subterfuge and guerrilla undertakings, in sabotage, hacking, and counter-surveillance, in cleanliness, honor, and marching in phalanx. Our uniforms blend into rock-face and soil; our pride is deep-rooted in blood, sweat, and toil; we ask that you lend us your muscles and ears; your sweethearts will greet you with music and cheers. Come visit our offices in Grig's downtown, come join this here unit, increase its renown, protect our dear borders from enemies base and help us to defend our glorious race.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian energy

Vast wind farms abound on the Great Barren Plain where few people live and thus fewer complain. They're built to high standards of technology, can capture such gusts as would barely move trees. Deep wells also tap into geo-therm heat (through cycles that are on an endless repeat) by pulling hot water from deep underground and using its steam to send turbines around. Solar collectors dot the Great Dune Sea, all gathering photons by day, silently, but these must be washed and always cleaned of dust lest they should develop a light-blocking crust. There's coal in our mountains, some wide seams of it, but we're not much into just burning the shit. We'd rather turn algae into diesel fuel or harness sources that are renewable. All things that make power are owned and belong to each native person born in the Yiptlong, or brought to life within our national borders – to all of Grigovia's fine sons and daughters. We've set up a true non-profit corporation to make sure that all electricity won gets doled out and shared without too much corruption lest there should flare up a vast social eruption. GriSol is its shortened, legitimate name, to honor the source whence all life truly came, invest in our future and make our land great, together we can all mankind elevate.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

warm cloudy flagons

Straight back to the top of majestic Grigung return all the gods from each mission far-flung. They race duly to there after saving towns, after doing acts of daring and renown, after bravely rescuing kids from a fire or climbers who'd got lost among craggy spires. They live in a place that no mortal can see, high above the region where grow no more trees; their houses and balés, their mansions and domes are modest and practical, welcoming homes. They drink only warm, cloudy flagons of mead, their wounds close up quickly and they rarely bleed, from us puny mortals but two things they need: virtuous behavior and a lack of greed. To seal themselves off and keep enemies out they've fully encircled their lofty redoubt with a cloak of snake-skin and bright amethyst that's known to man-children only as Graegist. Oumbast is the trickster, the fool of the bunch, she causes cruel chaos if she should miss lunch, she lives by herself in a barn made of stone where she can chase rodents and curl up alone. The other gods they mostly get along well, for close to each other they still choose to dwell, there is in fact little they complain about, except of course Oumbast and base human louts. Please use of this knowledge, please share it freely, and plunge into prayer with a newfound glee, for the gods are watching and listening too to all that we whisper and all that we do.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

the goddesses ten

Now here is a list of the Goddesses Ten, who help and assist many women and men. It starts with Amahamor love-filled and pretty who works in most every hamlet and city. Then cometh a long-time and bold favorite, the captor-escaping, lovely Aprodit. Dah'zhou is by alphabet the next in line; hers are those who make proper use of their time. There follows a goddess who laughs when we yawn – the maiden of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn. We'll throw roadways-goddess now into the mix, the ant-headed patroness, wise Ganestryx. Mu'untha she shines with the light of the moon, her rhythm and tugging sets our mortal tune. Nuuzstathena stands powerful, tall, there are few among us immune to her thrall. Oestre ushers in the first days of Spring, for female fertility is her main thing. Oumbast can be found in most bodies feline, she cleans herself often and purrs all the time. Majestic Steppe Mother, she's last but not least, her wards are growing things and wind-gusts and beasts. We've come to the end of our patroness list, it's not too extensive but provides some gist, they make a most beautiful, colorful blend, each one of our powerful Goddesses Ten.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in camouflaged boots

Our Self Defense Forces are taking recruits, come march with them proudly in camouflaged boots. They don't stand on outward appearances much but value persons who work well in a clutch, who use their resources with daring and grace, who are not afraid to smear mud onto face. Their weapons are rifle and garrote and knife, they do not seek war but are ready for strife, they hack and they hamper, disrupt and confuse, there are but few tools they're not willing to use. They thwart Rus and Ynki, our two greatest foes, they harass and badger and bloody the nose of any imperial superpower before which most other nations shake and cower. Enlistment is open so please stop on by; Huzzah For Grigovia will be your cry; now onwards, dear comrades, once more to the breach, we've many more lessons these tyrants to teach.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

our many bees

We do love our many bees because they pollinate our trees and all our flowers – blooms and such – without them we would not have much. Endlessly they flit and wander, here and there and even yonder, spreading life and love around so that our plates with food abound. Bright they are in mood and color similar to but few others for they drink from mountain streams and built mud hives in rafter-beams. When they come to share our spaces we rejoice and thank the Graces, Nuuzstathena, and Thriae, goddesses of work and play. To help bees sow plants of your own deeply into the spongy loam, add some bone-meal and much water, teach your son, nephew, or daughter, that the bees are our allies and not just stinging things that fly. Pesticides and toxic poison leave alone – this things please shun – for they kill things large and small that benefit us, one and all. (Brought to you by Friends of Bees (Grigovia edition), help us save our tiny friends and join us in our mission.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

blessed steppe mother

Our own modest steppe-land is not like another – watched over, protected, by blessed Steppe Mother. She shelters all animals under her wing and cares for the smallest and biggest of things, for field-mouse and springbok and furry cave-bat, for lizard, mosquito, and tiny sand-cat. Her colors are azure and ocher and gold, of her glory is in old stories much told, she makes all the grasses and midget trees bloom with dazzling blossoms and miniature plumes. Her watch never wavers through daytime and night, her justice is brutal and sudden and Right, her worshipers leave very few lasting traces to prove that they've been to the offering places. Her voice can be heard in the strong piercing winds that blow away evil and erase our sins, that race down the Yiptlong so steep and so high, as soon as the summers begin to turn dry. So come seek her presence, it is always near, it makes the soul vibrate and brings men to tears while women and babies just laugh with delight quite devoid of sorrow and empty of fright.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

battle and travel

When once came a rajah to us from the East we soon lay before him a welcoming feast. There were but few followers left in his train whose garments did not bear the horrible stains of battle and travel and many weeks spent asleep in the open with nary a tent. They'd fled from the Munguls come down from the plains, as our friendly rajah with patience explained, left all their belongings as booty and plunder and vanished while all that they'd known burst asunder. They wanted to pay for the things they'd ingested – we refused and refused but they just insisted – it was not their money or jewels we wanted but all of the knowledge their brain-pans yet haunted. With learning the wisest among them were brimming, in wisdom and genius we all soon were swimming, to honor common generosity we all got together and planted a tree. That plant is still growing in Queen Pylta's Park, it shelters both scholar and brightly-plumed lark, it's kept getting bigger these two-hundred years, since we fed the rajah with lamb-chops and beers. We still welcome people from far Hindoostan, there are exchange programs for woman and man, so sign up to take part in one of your own or just fill a backpack and start off alone. There is room for all sorts and types in our land, to learn about graphics and mammary glands, about astrophysics and effluvia, with welcome all persons to Grigovia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on archipedoptosaur ulricherii

It lived many millions of winters ago and has lain a few years just under the snow. It was first discovered by two Yaelong boys who kept mostly quiet despite profound joy; they'd spoken but briefly with a village elder who had built around it a permanent shelter. Named archipedoptosaur ulricherii, this small, flightless dinosaur lived below trees and built complex shelters with only its feet, Ulrich was the first boy its fragments to meet. What was once obscured has become a sensation, it's bringing much glory to our land-locked nation, now experts and researchers flock here in droves, enjoying Grigovia's vast treasure troves. We've fossils and artwork, food, dance, and song too, we are never bored as there's so much to do, if upon this reading your interest is piqued then come to Grigovia, stay here for weeks.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in BKK

Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace won't be slowed for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mighty Oumbast

Her whiskers now etch at now taste from the soul, her power is mighty and does not grow old. She works from the shadows, she shies from the light, her lives they are many, her footfall is slight. Her texture is moonlight and nightfall and dusk, she smells like rose petals tinged slightly with musk. Her fans they are legion, her cult it still grows, her temples get fashioned from palm leaves and snows. She loves to be petted, and to be picked up, come bask in her glory and drink from her cup. Although she is patient there's no time to lose, so cease with your slumber and strap on some shoes, so come to our party – we promise a blast – rejoice as we celebrate Lady Oumbast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥