#who knew feeding pheasants could be so tiring

[fortitudina]

*OOC. ------ Let's see if I can kick myself and my muses into gear to get some replies done.

[iamsielow]

You guys don't understand! -- This is a Chinese Military experiment gone wrong.

You guys don't understand! -- This is a Chinese Military experiment gone wrong.

 You guys don't understand! This virus is a military experiment gone wrong.

 The Chinese Military is in trouble.  They keep having failure after failure after failure!  They are looking for a success.  They would love to deliver Hong Kong to the Leadership but they can't.

 Gone are the days when they could gather peasants from rice paddies, give them pretend guns and no bullets and send them into to absorb the first shots of any invasions or attacks.

 Do you know what the Military used to do?  Back in the 1940's, 1950's, 60's, the early days.  They used to roll trucks into villages, gather peasants from fields -- stupid, stupid peasants -- from fields and give them old rifles,  Some of these rifles fell apart WHILE THEY WERE BEING HELD! A few times the Military leaders tried to give them wooden, fake rifles but the peasants knew that rifles had to have moving parts.

 Then they would line up the peasants in the jungles and beat or shoot at them to attack the Americans or whoever they were fighting against.  The people being attacked would waste eighty-percent of their ammo on these people in the first waves.  Once most of the ammo had been exhausted, the real troops WITH REAL WEAPONS would move in.

 Sometimes the military leaders would send in these first waves with limited or no bullets at all.

 You would not believe some of the stories my demonic associates* would tell me.  They would watch these battles laughing themselves silly.  Some of the smarter peasants were shown desperately clawing at the bodies of their fallen comrades, those who had been killed, desperately searching pockets and supplies for one God Damned bullet!  "JUST ONE DAMNED BULLET!  PLEASE DEAR GOD!  LET ME FIND JUST ONE BULLET FOR MY GUN!"

 Unfortunately, the Chinese government had killed all the Chinese gods.  All that was left was the government as god that god was currently killing them.

 *In case you were wondering, my Angelic associates, if they talk about these events, talk about comforting as many of these peasants as they can.

 THIS, dear friends, is why some of the first rushing waves of Chinese attackers would rush the American troops so violently.  If they could JUST REACH the American lines, maybe they could grab a REAL gun, figure out how to use it and kill someone before they died.

 …

 But they never made it. Even without bullets, the American soldiers were better trained than the Chinese pheasant.  It was only through sheer numbers that the first waves would get through.  By then there was little time for anyone who made it that far to grab a working rifle and hope there were bullets in it to use.

 The battle fields would run red with the blood of men who, two or three weeks before, had been happily tending crops back in their village.

 …

 Look at the records. The people responding to the virus outbreak are from the Military, NOT from the Government branch of the CCP. They, the Military, needed a success.

 So they decided to play God … again.  This time they tried playing god with viruses.  When it went sideways they couldn't let the Government side no how badly it had failed.

 Sadly, the virus hadn't failed.  It was more powerful than they imagined.  It spread faster than predicted.  Their response made it worse.

 Just like in the old days, they chose ignorant peasants in a food market place as the bodies to experiment on.  But this time the people saw that getting sick meant the Military would appear and then you "disappeared" -- forever.  These days, Chinese KNOW what it means people start "disappearing."

 So anyone getting sick, ran! RAN! As fast and as far as they could, they ran!  Sometimes they would hide in plain site.  Then, once they had gotten as far as they could, they began coughing.

 And coughing.

 And coughing.

 Eventually they HAD to check into a hospital.

 Where they coughed some more.

 Some lived:  The strongest.  The most fit.  The ones who had enough money to pay for the extra "free medical care" they needed to survive.

 Some lived.

 But many died.

 In their wake they left behind the virus, spreading it to others.

 By the time the Military showed up to make people disappear, the virus was spread wide.  The Military couldn't collect them all!  THIS is why they began SEALING the sick in their houses! Welding doors shut, putting bars on their windows to prevent the sick from getting out.

 The Military couldn't allow ANOTHER failure!  They are already facing HUGE internal pressures from the Government side of the leadership.

 …

 Those old days of killing off people without consequence are gone.

 Speaking of which: Remember when I wrote of my associate demons laughing themselves silly at the smart peasants searching their fallen comrades for just a single working bullet?

 Well, that was for the first dozens or so times it happened.  When you see the desperation of the first few, for the first few moments, my demonic associates cheered and laughed and made rude comments.

 But after the twentieth time?  The fortieth? The hundredth time?  Eventually all the jokes, the joking and the comments get stale.

 Eventually, even demons get tired of the hopelessness, of the pleas, of the slaughter.

 Don't get me wrong. Some demons FEED on this stuff! In their business, in their chosen profession, they will go far.

 But most demons are more like garbage men.  They corrupt, they harvest, they enjoy a good haul just like anyone cleaning out a trashed filled world would.

 But honestly?  Sometimes they can't stand the smell any more than most garbage men can.

 Lacking any God to answer to the Chinese Military prove that when you have no god you have no compassion.

 And the CPP is no god. ** I Am Sielow, These are my words.If you like what you've read, PLEASE share it and recommend my works to others.

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[scarlettaagni]

The Hunter

Herne dismounted his steed, and stamped his feet upon the ground just before the forest. It was unsafe for a hunter to prowl such a thick forest so close to sundown, but Herne wasn’t like most hunters. He was the best in his village, the county, and as his fellow hunters say, the best in all of England, good enough to hunt alongside the king himself. Though as sure as Herne knew this, as he could not deny his skill, he had a recurring doubt that swallowed all his attention. And that was why he was here, at sundown.

Herne had talent for archery, which revealed itself early on, even as a child. Even back then, just as they are now, everyone was amazed at his prowess, because otherwise he was a completely boring child. Just slightly less than average at everything, but hunting. He was born to shoot an arrow. And through this singular skill, he proved his worth. Once he was a man, he went on hunting expeditions, and kept his village well fed. Nowadays he often hunts, and often hunts alone or with one other partner. On his return, he has to walk through town to visit his home, and along the way, give his game to the people awaiting his handouts. Herne was such a master of the bow that he could hand a single piece of game to everyone that stopped him and he still had plenty to share with his own family once he reached them.

But then there was doubt. It had existed all along, but reared its ugly head once he joined the expeditions. No one had even bothered to look at or listen to him before he picked up that bow. And now everyone loved him just for that. He was the village darling now, and has been for years. But worrying thoughts prodded him.

“What if it was all a fluke? Just dumb luck leading those arrows to those targets? What if I lose my touch? What will they think of me then? What will they do? Do they love me solely for my skill? Even my own family?”

A grown man worried by such things was surely to make him a laughingstock in the people’s eyes, so this was his deepest, darkest secret. Herne couldn’t allow himself to go ignored again, as much as the popularity crushed him under its immense weight. So he did the thing he did best. He hunted. If he hunted as much as possible, not only would he never lose his touch, but he would help everybody and do exactly what made them happy. It was such a large forest, it couldn’t possibly run out of animals, could it? Herne didn’t doubt that. So when the doubts arose, he hunted. To both get his mind off it, and kill the source of the doubts, like a parasitic weed.

So, that was why Herne was hunting so close to sundown. This particular bout of doubts arose when he built up the nerve to straightforwardly ask his family if they’d still like him even if he didn’t hunt. They laughed. And laughed. Not to mention they brushed his problems aside like they were nothing. Just like always. But he was so direct this occasion, it hurt. So he grabbed his cape and bow and quiver with a white-knuckle grip and abruptly excused himself despite their protests. However, now was not the time for worrying. It was time to hunt.

The forest this night was particularly barren. Though, the distant calls of birds grew louder as he walked further in. This was natural, as the animals tended to dwell towards the center of the woods and not by its surface. But the amount of space between the edge and where the animals presumably were was much larger than usual, especially so close to nighttime. Finally, a few pheasants revealed themselves. Then they dropped dead from the arrows piercing their heads. Herne bent down and grabbed their carcasses by the legs and tied them together. It was placed in a sack, and then he moved on. Partridges and woodcocks flitted about further on, but were no match for Herne the Hunter’s sheer skill. And into the bag they went. From then on the fauna went scarce again and yet the hunter marched onward. Was he looking for something? Quite possibly. This bout of doubts was so intense, they burned inside his chest and threatened to take his life, and he felt as if he needed to prove himself yet again. A buck! If only he could snag a buck, or even a larger-than-average doe, would his demons dissolve. The villagers love venison. And they’ll love Herne, too. But only if he slayed that buck.

After a solid half-hour (by then the sun was long gone), Herne heard hoofbeats upon trees. Some scraping on tree bark, too. Does don’t make those noises. It was the buck he’d been searching for. He quietly slid his arrow into the bow and sidestepped his way around. Any chirping of birds and bugs had ceased and all that could be heard were the footsteps of the hunter, and the hunted. Due to the forest’s natural echo, it was hard to discern exactly where it was, so Herne did a few 360s around the small clearing he was in, cringing ever so slightly at his louder footsteps. He eventually relaxed and let the arrow sway away from the bowstring. This particular stag was either the most elusive Herne had seen, or it had simply walked away. Disappointed, he looked lazily to his side for one last check, and there it was. The buck, staring straight at him.

For once, Herne hesitated. The buck had an intense, yet cold gleam in its eye, as if it knew exactly what he was here for. Then it entered a charging stance and the hunter just gawked at it, and it sprinted forward as he finally armed himself. Herne managed to launch a good two or three arrows in the few seconds before the buck caught him and smacked him against a tree. The last arrow had pierced its chest, and so it died right after the collision. Herne breathed heavily, but stopped once some blood worked its way out of his mouth. Herne looked downwards and found the buck’s antlers had impaled him clean through his abdomen, and even into the tree behind it. Shock and adrenaline had completely numbed the injury, but it was already wearing thin.

Herne let out shrieking, shuddering cries as he attempted to work the buck off of him, but he could feel his insides suffering as he shook the deer’s head. It was nearly impossible, for the buck was the largest Herne had ever seen and certainly the heaviest. With the antlers lodged in the tree behind him, he was completely pinned. Herne started to bend forward to dislodge them, but blood began rushing and viscera started oozing out of his wounds, making him give out an agonized cry. More futile attempts and everything started to feel cold. In the moonlight, Herne’s skin was paper white. His fingers were raw and numb from endless scraping. Each now labored breath caused more blood to gush out. Herne was desperate to escape, but he was so tired now, his mouth was dry, he couldn’t even keep his head nor his eyelids up. A few more gasps choked with blood, then ignoring the pain, he slumped over the deer with a sickening groan. Then his arms let go of the antlers and hung by his side. And then he didn’t move again after that.

But this was not the end. In the forest, any end met there is just another beginning. Any bird or squirrel or boar or human that dies will begin new lives by feeding the trees and plants and flies and any hungry creature out there. But Herne’s new beginning was different from these.

While Herne himself did not move after dying, a certain someone of the forest dragged his body away. The wise folk of the forest unpinned him from the tree, unstuck the deer from Herne, and carried both the man and the deer to their dwelling. There, they did the work they were so famous for. Though, objectively, it was quite simple, even if it was magic. Right after they finished, they took something of Herne’s, something precious. Then they took their fist and firmly knocked on Herne’s chest three times, as if it were a door. Herne’s body jerked a bit, then sat up slightly as he deeply inhaled and started to cough. It almost hurt to breathe, especially after a day or two of not breathing, and having a blood-coated throat. He also had a pounding headache which felt like a massive pressure on his forehead. Examining his waist revealed quite sloppy-looking stitchwork, yet it was impressively well-healed. It seemed to be the afternoon, judging by the warmth and light peeking out of the porous roof above him.

The wise folk waiting in the corner stepped forward and accepted the revived hunter’s thanks. The folk cocked their head with a nonchalant smile.

“Well, before you’re off, there are a few conditions that are to be explained,” they started.

Herne figured out condition one by placing his hand to his head to ease the pressure, but instead he felt the strange structures embedded in it, and traced them all the way up, till he could barely reach their pointed ends.

“Wh-what sort of—” he stammered. “I-is this…?!”

The wise folk beamed a wicked smile and the sunrays made their teeth shine with a sinister gleam.

“Do you like them? I tried awfully hard to make the connection as smooth as possible.”

Herne threw his head upward in a futile attempt to observe his new features, gripping them like handles to peel them off, then turned a naked, betrayed look to the figure as they let a cackle slip.

“I thought it would be only so fitting that you, who slaughters the forest life so zealously, was finally killed by one of its own.” They said with satisfaction. “And I found it fit that you could keep the stag’s horns as a trophy upon your crown. You already have, but no need to thank me.”

Herne agonized over his now monstrous appearance, lamenting that he could never face his family or any other human again. The wise folk’s smile widened, which they half-heartedly hid behind their hand. They then snickered to him,

“You have lost something in return for your life, Hunter.”

Herne stopped burying his face in his hands to look at the wizard in confusion. The wise folk held up their hand, pinching the air as if it held something, but nothing could be seen.

“Why, I’ve taken your hunting prowess.”

Herne immediately scrambled off the table, attempting to grab the air by the folk’s hand, but having failed, instead prayed on his knees to the forest mage, shaking his clasped fists to them, to the sky, begging for it to be given back.

“I could live with horns, I can trim them short enough to hide, but I cannot not live without my livelihood! Not without the only reason that anyone has ever cared about me!”

The folk sneered at Herne with disgust.

“You shall be cursed until the day you die.”

The forlorn hunter crumpled to the ground and sobbed. The wizard looked down at him, and complained that a grown man crying like so, was undignified and demanded he be grateful he was even alive at all. They grabbed his bag of game birds and threw it in front of him. Herne was then told to get out.

“Don’t forget to savor the last prey you’ll ever have the satisfaction of slaughtering, you beast.” the folk hissed through a forced smile, adding insult to injury.

Herne closely hugged the bag as he staggered out of the hovel and stumbled about the rocks and tree trunks. He fumbled aimlessly about for a few minutes, gasping for air between teary sighs, before tripping over the roots of a great oak tree.

Herne spent a great deal of the day sobbing and tracking back and forth around this oak tree, pondering on what to do. He even tried shooting arrows but they all went astray, some didn’t even pierce anything, simply bouncing against the target with their shafts or nocks and falling uselessly to the ground. If he ever showed himself to the public, they’d surely mistake him for a great monstrous beast and kill him on the spot. If not, then they’d think he contracted with the Devil and hang him. Or maybe they’d join together and chase him through the forest and out of town with pitchforks and torches. Even if they could assimilate such a pitiful freak back into their society, he would be absolutely useless without his skill. No one would ever want to deal with such an ugly mediocre creature. He’d just be a leech on the community. Nothing could be done but wallow in misery in the forest forever, unable to even entertain himself with archery, forever haunted by the wise folk feeding upon his misfortune. Nothing at all— Wait, go backwards. Hang. Herne finally had an answer. Not the answer he wanted, but the most favorable out of the others.

But before this, he calmly sat down and let out a few more tears and gasps, later grabbing his bag. He retrieved all the rope keeping the bag and its contents sealed up. Then he went to work. The noose he made was not as skilled as the kind for professional executions as he, too, was mediocre at knot-tying, but if it got the job done, he didn’t care. Using his newly acquired horns, he propped and looped the rope around the thickest branch he could reach. He tied the other end to a boulder. Carrying it, Herne shimmied up the tree and struggled to fit his head through the loop. Herne took one teary last look upwards to the sky and the trees framing it. It was utterly disappointing. Then he dropped the stone and closed his eyes.

The wise folk watched Herne’s feet sway back and forth, looking unimpressed. They were looking forward to a lifetime of misery from a murderer like him, but knew an early outcome was expected. Nonetheless, a promise is a promise. Herne’s skill would be in the wizard’s hands for the rest of his life. And Herne made it so the rest of his life would be but a few hours. They took their enclosed hand and flicked it towards the base of the tree directly under Herne. They smiled once more, because the lifetime of misery had become an eternity.

Herne opened his eyes for the second time. He was staring up at a pair of boots. He rose up from the ground and examined them. They led up to white pant-clad legs, a brown leathery belt and top, a forest green cape cinched by the collar bones, and above that, a plum-purple bruised neck. And if Herne had a stomach at this time, it would have dropped when he got to its pained, blotchy, veiny face. Herne was dead. Yet again. But he wasn’t alive now like last time. His spirit had manifested itself as his monstrous horned form, even taller this time. Other than the natural weightlessness of spirituality, something else was different. He drew an arrow from his quiver and strung it across his bowstring. He aimed at a tree forty feet away. The arrow pierced its fruit exactly how Herne wanted it to. The only moment of clarity that his skill was true and it was far too late. It meant nothing but personal satisfaction to a problem that no longer exists, pleasure from animal slaughter, and a source of mild entertainment for the oncoming eon of boredom. That’s just how it would go for the ensuing centuries, angrily shooting trespassers for daring to bother him and defile the tree his poor battered body hung upon, unleashing shrieks of pure malevolence that rattled the nighttime forest to disturb the people who ignored him, who dared to sleep while he could not.

One day, a horned owl perched itself upon a branch near the oak tree. Herne instinctively aimed towards it. It cocked its head and began to watch him. What was a nocturnal creature like an owl doing out and about in the afternoon like this? Herne didn’t really care. He didn’t care enough to shoot it either. He just sighed, dropped his weapon, and kneeled while idly ripping up the grass. The owl softly darted from the branch in exchange for Herne’s horns (which caused his head to tilt). He then placed his hand up to the bird, and it shifted over onto his wrist. When Herne brought it to eye level, it screeched and spat a stuttered hoot in his face but otherwise acted like a perfectly tamed owl. It seemed to enjoy little brushes under its chin and pats upon its downy belly. It didn’t seem to want to leave, so Herne named it Harold. Harold puffed out and ruffled its plumage at its new name. If Herne couldn’t have normal human contact, the accompanying intelligence of an owl would suffice. Even if generally unhealthy habits like yelling at a bird as you pretend to have an argument with it were frowned upon, it helped alleviate his antisocial outlook.

Now that Herne noticed, it seemed the forest was more alive at the moment. It was dead silent all this time but now the natural ambiance had returned, and so had the forest populace. Silhouettes of deer, squirrels, foxes, and even a few stallions seemed to surround the clearing. Any ordinary hunter would feel threatened, but the sensation they gave off felt more like a warm reception. Harold must have been a test. And Herne, by giving up hunting for sport, passed it and earned the fauna’s respect. He didn’t have to swear off archery, just the killing of animals. And he was just fine with that.

Most people don’t equate animals to humans, Herne having been one of them, but in terms of company and companionship, they were even greater. They did not glare, they did not gossip, they did not judge, and only gave silent support from the sidelines, and you knew without word or question that it was genuine. Animals are incapable of the deception humans are so well known for. They’re too pure for emotional cruelty, in stark contrast to their home, Nature, who was purely merciless. It was therapeutic, really. The dark, depressing forest of certain death by a ghostly arrow was, nowadays, the tragic if not bittersweet foliaged home to a phantasmic keeper. He’ll only watch you from afar, and shy from your line of sight, but keep your distance from Herne’s Oak.

[7000goldfishinaspacesuit]

Let me tell you a story my mother told me.

 In the beginning, there was nothing. There was no grass, no sky, and no animals. There were no scents or sounds. There was no light, but there was no darkness either. There was simply nothing until Man created itself, and then there was Man.

 Other creatures scoff at this, and say that Man could not have possibly created itself--for what being, given the chance to make its own body, would give itself such weak senses, such slow legs, such feeble defenses? They may believe that their own spirits or deities created Man, perhaps as a lesson or a punishment to other animals; they may believe Man to be a plague or a demon, an unnatural force.

 But the dogs know the truth. Man created itself. For when one is such a powerful Creator-of-things, there is no need for the nose or claws of a lesser beast: one can simply create things to make up for what they lack. This is why Man has its tools, its buildings and machines and cars--all things that were created to help Man hold its rightful place above all other things.

 So Man’s first creation was itself. It created itself abundantly, and in many different varieties. There were the light-skinned Man and the dark-skinned Man, and all the shades of Man in between. There were males and females, males-who-smell-female, females-who-smell-male, and those whose smell was sort-of-both-together. There were grumpy Man and kind Man, calm Man and excitable Man. Old-Man. Pup-Man. As it spread out across the nothingness, Man began to create other things.

 Its first creation was buildings to live in and shelter in. (There was, of course, nothing for Man to shelter itself from at this point, but, of course, Man already knew it would go on to create the sun and weather, so it was getting prepared in advance.) The buildings came in as many different shapes and sizes as their creators, and had the same endlessness of purpose. There were houses and stores and restaurants and vee-eee-tees and all the rest.

 All of them--even the vee-eee-tees--were good, because Man is Good.

 Man’s second creation was animals and plants to eat. It created the cows and the sheep and chickens, created farms for corn and wheat. Trees and bushes full of sweet fruits sprang up according to the will of Man. All the dogs in the world could have swarmed over the farms and eaten their fill, and there would still be enough left to feed Man. From the beginning, there was rich abundance.

 It was good, because Man is Good.

 Then Man created the rest of the world outside of its shelters and cities. Parks and forests. Rivers. Oceans. Lakes with docks for jumping off of. Mountains so tall their peaks would be lost to the clouds (which Man would also create, but hadn’t yet). Fields. Beaches. Man made these places to explore when it tired of the cities, or to hunt things in, or simply to visit and smile at. And all of them were good, because Man is Good.

 And upon creating the world--and shortly after that, its weather--Man began to create animals to fill it. It created pheasants and deer to hunt for meat and sport, and foxes to hunt for fur. It created mice to hide in holes and make quiet sounds in the darkness, squirrels to run through the trees, and birds to fill the new sky.

 And, as I’m sure you already know, these things were all good, because Man is Good.

 So the world and all its plants and all its animals had been created. It was all good, but it was not finished yet. There was still one more thing to create. One thing, and many things. For who would guard Man’s buildings? Who would protect its livestock? Who would go out into the wilderness with it, whether to retrieve shot game or simply join in the adventure? None of the other animals could fill these roles, so Man created one--and many--more.

 As a finishing touch on its new world, Man created dogs.

 Where there were buildings to be protected, Man created the rottweilers, the dobermans, the mastiffs, the German shepherds. Large dogs with large teeth, with a powerful bite and a bark that could wake intruders’ ancestors to the sixth generation.

 On the farms, where livestock needed tending, Man created the heelers and collies, the sheepdogs and corgis. Determined dogs with a hard stare and an inborn need for control, whose legs never tired and whose minds were always working. Fearless dogs who leapt headfirst into all they did.

 Those Man who wished to hunt the beasts that now roamed the world created dogs to accompany them, to flush game and retrieve it when it fell. There came the pointers, the setters, the coonhounds, the terriers, the beagles. Boisterous dogs who lived to shatter the stillness with their call.

 The Man who stayed in their cities and suburbs created dogs of their own to keep them company. Pugs and pekingese, bichons and bostons, chihuahuas and chins--little dogs with big voices, and even bigger hearts.

 And these are but a single mouthful of names from the feast of dogs! There are more kinds than anyone could count in a moon or even a season, and there will never be an end to them, because Man is a great Creator-of-things; if the need ever arises for a new dog, Man will create it.

 Other creatures think themselves superior; in their own religions, their ancestors are always the first to emerge, the ones to shape the world. Dogs are not so vain. We know that we, like all other things, are beneath Man. But we also know that we are set apart from other creatures: We alone were created by Man for service. Let others have their false pride in being first, my mother always said. Dogs have real pride, and it is in being last.

 We were created to provide for our providers, and we alone walk beside Man as near-equals.