Work is hard. School is hard. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of transforming this blog from one story into random vignettes. I think it will be easier for the other side of my brain to turn on if the prompt is to write anything. Anything at all.
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I saw it rain horizontally once. The clouds had descended down to our valley, our farms and our villages, choking out light, exuding skeletal hands of mist. A pelter of water droplets hit my face, hit the side of my face and suddenly half of my body, the left side, became soaking wet. I can tell you there was no wind, only that when I opened my eyes, rain drops rushed by me like cars in a hurry, from left to right. Everyone agreed it was raining horizontally, because after the downpour..or...rightpour? the dirt was drier than jerky smoked for two whole months, and only the east side of the valley, where the cliffs suddenly rose up, was drowning in new pools of rainwater. If proper rain didn't come soon, there wouldn't be enough for the coming winter. Some blamed the former preacher, who was caught skivving the chambermaid two weeks ago. Others blamed the strangers in town, snake-eyed foreigners with golden coins and flashes of vivid brocade under dark cloaks.
I think it was the Wago.
An 'undred years ago, we had neighbors who lived up on the mountains. They called themselves the Wago, dark-skinned savages with blood-encrusted beards and feathers entwined in their hair, who waved staffs with weird sigils and markings and screamed their bone-chilling language at the skies. They learned our language and traded with us, bringing rich and wonderful goods in from outside the valley and carrying our produce out. Nobody complained aloud (although everyone complained to themselves), until the thundering of hooves rained down from the mountainside. The emperor's army had decided to carve their own path through the mountains and chased the Wago away, either into the depths of the mountains or into hell itself. The Wago vanished, but our trade was taken up by other merchants who came by the army's road, and no one asked where the Wago had gone.
Gramma Piola says that the Wago haven't made a single peep since the cavalry crossed the slopes, and poo-poos the idea that they're still alive. They hain't got any more women, she says while chuckling to herself. But if they're anything like us, I'm sure they'd want revenge. As much as I want revenge. I don't know what's held them back these past 'undred years. I just know I'm held back by Gramma Piola, a force stronger than her wrinkly skin and shriveled bones would tell you.
406 words
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