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25-06-05
By Sam
If you spent long enough on your
hands and knees in the rural American soil, sifting through the
dirt, you would eventually find an arrowhead. You would
pick it up between thumb and forefinger to inspect a dull
surface that barely reflects the sunlight, feel it's roughened,
once-sharp edges, and see the story worn upon it.
It had begun its life enwombed in
the ruptured heart of a deer. A mighty stag, whose antlers
wore the scores and scars of many battles. He had won many
prizes, such as true happiness, and the healthiest doe in the
herd. A good life, by the reckoning of a deer. And a
tragedy, from that perspective, that it should leak along such a
thin shaft of wood and soak the feathers of a bird that never
meant the stag any harm. Not while it lived, anyway.
But from the perspective of the
brave, crouched some distance away, bowstring still quivering
beneath his calloused fingers, it is a triumph, and he takes a
moment to appreciate the contentment he feels. Soon he
will cut the stag's genitals off and gut it with a knife carved
from stone. The knife was a gift from his father, along
with the one hundred thousand ghosts who now gather around him,
there beneath the trees. The ghosts of his ancestors,
whose voices may be silent, but he hears them nonetheless,
whispering platitudes of positive reinforcement. The sort
of words that might be found on greeting cards he will never
live to receive.
The flesh of the stag will be
cooked, and served to those he is responsible for. Its
hide torn from its back and draped over one of his children, who
will wear it until the day she dies. During that time she
will form a lifelong habit of fingering the little hole where
the arrowhead made its mark, but she will never wonder what
became of that little chip of stone. Not once in her
entire life.
But you know, and now you can put
the arrowhead back into the ground, folding it in a blanket of
dirt. Maybe somebody else will pluck this story from the
earth. And maybe they, too, will review it on the
internet.
Four out of five stars: good, but it could have
done with a sex scene. If you enjoyed it, I suggest you
look up the the sky, where there are more recent stories by the
same author.
-Sam
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25-06-05
By Sam
There's a good reason why we're so
late in offering up our latest comic, as one might offer the
town bike up in the hopes that an uneducated, pagan god might
mistake her for a virgin. And that reason is, we were
waiting.
After the inauguration of our lauded
fan club, we decided to sit back and wait for the
squanch to appear,
spread-eagled, on our porch, and the money to roll in.
I
was going to buy a mountain bike.
Slopes, I believe, was planning to
sponsor a third world child all the way through to Harvard Law
School. Apparently having a cut-throat defense lawyer in
his pocket is part of some diabolical plan I am not yet privy to
the full details of. Something long term, I'm assured,
like global warming, or rebuilding Iraq's infrastructure.
But alas, nobody seemed particularly
keen to join the ranks of what I've dubbed "The Samites".
Slopes thought we might have more like if we renamed them the
"Anti-Samites", at which point I got angry and told him we may
as well just call them the "Slopites" and be done with it.
Glory hogger.
It quickly became apparent that we
would have take the course of action which we reviled the most:
continue making comics. And so we have done exactly this.
And are now going to take a shower, and scrub ourselves with
steel wool.
Not together. That'd be a
little fruity.
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