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Creation myths are always beautiful. I only wish I could have the empathy towards them. All I feel is anger for feeling nothing.

Maybe I can find something good in that.

That said, I have placed this in my bookmarks to read every morning. Perhaps what little solace I can find in such beautiful prose will be helpful.

Maybe I’ll find the Gate in my heart, one day.

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(as told on The Summit today)

The one who stayed behind

♫ I have come to say good bye
The others have gone ahead, they are waiting
Yet in the air, your scent lingers… ♫

There are a multiple versions of that story, but here is one.

Once upon the time in the Darkness, there lived a young man called Milian, and he was one of honour and one of passion, like young tribesmen tend to be. His was a clan in a key position when the Rebellion came; a high-class clan, managing a Holding, irreplacable for the local Lord.

Yet when the Dawn broke, his cohort and his clan and every one of his blood went with it, and they prepared to fight. At the darkest hour, just before sunrise, the young Lord of the house came to Milian, and he said; love, I know what is about to transpire. And Milian said, my Lord, I know you know.

And after that, there was nothing to else say. Milian’s cohort waited for him, but he never came; the young Lord’s family waited for him, but he never did, either. Dawn broke, and the House burned, and when it was all over and the free people stood on the ruins, they found the bodies of the two, with no battle wound on them, and no honour in either death.

When all other ways close, the Way of the Knife opens.

This is a teaching story.

What would you do, were you Milian? If you were the young Lord? If you were Milian’s cohort?

There are no right answers.


(Told to me by Skarkon evacuees on the dockside of On the Way Home in Gelfiven.)

Lady Luck’s gifts

The Tribal Council is holding a meeting, when suddenly Lady Luck herself manifests in the meeting hall, and approaches the Sanmatar.

“Esteemed Sanmatar”, Lady Luck says, “you have served your people well, and as a reward you can pick one of my three gifts: never-ending riches, all-encompassing wisdom, or eternal beauty.”

The Sanmatar, wishing only to lead his people right, of course picks wisdom. Lady Luck vanishes in a shining light, which settles on the Sanmatar and starts to dim. The Council waits with bated breath for what words of wisdom will fall from his mouth.

After a long silence, he speaks slowly: “I should have taken the money.”


The Moon Cannot Be Stolen

An Achura monk lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening, while he was away, a thief sneaked into the hut only to find there was nothing in it to steal.

The monk returned and found him. “You have come a long way to visit me,” he told the prowler, “and you should not return empty handed. Please take my clothes as a gift.” The thief was bewildered, but he took the clothes and ran away.

The monk sat naked, watching the moon. “Poor fellow,” he mused, " I wish I could give him this beautiful moon."

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The following is a direct transcript from a story I told on The Summit channel today, out of request by Simeon of the Blood Raiders.

Fate walks on twisted paths

Once upon the time, in the Darkness, there lived a tribesman as a house slave in a noble family.

He was comfortable in his position and he grew lazy – sorry there’ll be delays while I am flying – and comfortable and life was good for him.

[to someone on the side] Who said it’s a happy story?

Anyway, this tribesman, he had a daughter, who had the blessing of spirits to be very beautiful, skin pale as snow, hair dark as night.

Lithe and spirited, she got smiles wherever she went as a child, and when she grew into youth, she turned all heads. [to the side again] Well, it’s a bit of a both.

As was bound to happen, she also got the attention of the Lord of the House.

This Lord, he was old, and happily married, and a very decent man, so he had no evil thoughts for the maiden himself, but the House was poor, so he thought he could make a fair bit of trade for the beautiful maiden.

So, he went to look for potential buyers. But the maiden, she did not want to be sold, she wanted to remain with her father, and her kin, as is proper, of course.

When the first buyer came in, she took berry juice, and made blotches on her face, and pretended to be sick with the red fever. The buyer was scared and went away without another word of interest.

When the second buyer came in, she started a small fire in a grain storage, and there was a commotion, and she showed up all wild and sooty, and there was no trade.

When the third buyer candidate showed up, she presented herself nicely, but whenever she had the chance to meet him in a corridor without anyone seeing, she pretended to limp, and let the buyer think they were being deceived by the Lord, into buying a lame slave.

And so it went, potential buyers came in, but she always performed some trick, and they did not fancy her after all. Months passed, then years, and she remained with her father.

People started to talk, some saying it was God’s will she was not sold, some saying she was cursed. She enjoyed the show immensely and grew smug.

In the end, the Lord of the House grew tired of it, and just wanted to be rid of her, and cared no longer for the money. He confessed this to the father - he, as I said, was held in great regard with the Lord - who took the opportunity to plant in the Lord’s mind the idea that the young woman just be given her freedom, as thanks for his own service.

And that happened, and the girl was freed, and sent away from the Holdings and anywhere close.

So, with her tricks, she gained her freedom, but lost what she did it for, namely the possibility to stay with her kin.

Fate walks on twisted paths.


Not the story I earlier shared, but for the moment it feels especially apt.

An Amarrian scholar, both good and wise, was arguing one day with a Ni-Kunni, when the latter, who was young and quick tempered, became angry and cried:

“I have half a mind to fling this stone in your mouth and knock out every one of your thirty-two teeth!”

The astonished scholar left the Ni-Kunni standing there and hurried home to consult his wife. “In Heaven’s name, good wife,” he said, “light the lamp and count my teeth, for I am anxious to know how many I have.” The scholar’s wife counted his teeth, and then said, “Indeed, husband, I find that you have thirty-two teeth, neither more nor less.”

The scholar hurried back to find his friend the Ni-Kunni, and asked him, “Pray tell me, how did you know how many teeth I have?”

“Good master,” replied the Ni-Kunni, “I judged the number of your teeth from my own.”

Just as the Ni-Kunni knew the number of the scholar’s teeth, from knowing ourselves may we know others, we all are united by more than divides us.


Thank you for sharing.

At the Center of Matmoro Island, there lie two Volcanoes. They are the two largest peaks of the island. One is dormant, and has not shown any activity for many years. The other on occasion will release smoke as it vents the pressure building from the core of the planet.

It is said on the island that these two volcanoes are the immortalization of a man and a woman, who lived back in the days long before the day of darkness, when there was still warfare between the clans and tribes. The woman, daughter of a chieftain was said to have a beauty that made even the spirits pause. Yet she was also kind, and cared deeply for her people. The man was a warrior of great renown, fierce in combat, yet gentle in spirit. These two were said to be deeply in love, a match ordained by the ancestors themselves.

The warrior approached the chieftain to ask for his daughters hand in marriage. This was the time of conflicts between clans, and one such conflict was at their doorstep. A rival clan, from a nearby Island desired Matmoro for themselves. The Chieftain, wishing to see his daughter happy, but also concerned for the well being of his people agreed, nut under the condition that the warrior defeat their enemy in battle. And so the warriors of Matmoro went off to battle, the great warrior at their head. They were gone for many days, and the woman began to worry. One day, from the waves emerged a man, almost drowned, who brought ill news of the battle. The warrior had been slain in battle! Distraught, the woman grieved, her pain from this loss would become too much to bear, and she died, not wanting to live without her love.

Not two days later the host returned, and the great warrior stood triumphantly on the shore, victorious and carrying many trophies, and seeking his love so that they could marry. The man who had come ashore before them was a deserter, convinced that the battle was doomed, and jealous of the woman love for the warrior. his wish was to keep her forhimself, sure of the outcome of the battle. Apon learning of the woman’s death, the Great warrior slayed the man where he stood, and went to grieve over the burial mound of his love. The spirits, moved by their story, raised the two volcanoes at the center of the island, and that is how they are known, as the sleeping woman, and the kneeling warrior.

To this day, when ever he suffurs bursts of anger or grief, we can see the smoke rising from the volcano.


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As told on The Summit channel yesterday:

Once upon the time before humans left Paradise and God was still whole, the Fox came to Her, and asked, God, if you’re all-powerful, can you make a stone so big you cannot lift it.

And God said, why would I do that? And the Fox said, oh come on, I just want to see that rock.

(audience) A stone that can not be lifted due to its is in direct violation of the Laws of Physics and should be arrested.

So God shrugged and she said fine, dear Fox, and she made a stone that was very big indeed, even if otherwise it looked like any rock. And she attempted to lift it, and she could not.

The Fox looked at God try and lift the Very Big Stone and it laughed and mocked God and said, I see you are not all-powerful after all! You cannot lift the stone.

(audience) “Ah,” Said God, “But you are wrong, Fox - for the stone cannot be lifted only because I will it so. And my will is supreme to all others. Just as your will is free, only because I permit it. So cherish those limitations I place upon myself, for they permit you to exist.” That’s how it ends.

No, this is how it ends: but God said, are you stupid or what? And She made the stone lighter, and lifted it with ease, and tossed it to the ocean, and it raised a big wave, which carried the Fox away from Her sight. And God went on about Her godly business, and the Fox went away, but still today you can hear it laugh at God in the night among the rocks.


Once upon a time, several pew pew happened around the cluster.

Oh noes, some cried.
Doom looms on the horizon threatening to crack the foundations of the universe, some feared.
Worry not, some replied.
Doom shall not respond to such nonsensical call, some affirmed.

And while some and some exchanged words, arguments, blows and pew pew, little did they know.

The universe was already cracked, it could not be done to it
Doom never left, it did not be called upon

And among all these things, there were sweet juicy red strawberries

Some took their time to taste them

As told on a boring moment on The Summit channel today.

The One Duty

Once upon a time in the vindication wars there was a Nefantar clan that was torn on which side to pick.

Some of them said, we much remain loyal, we must follow what is traditional, we must support our Holder. It would be wrong to stray from the one Path. And some of them said, we must be what we are, we are Matari, we must rise, we must shove aside the Holder, and make our own Fate.

As a result, the clan was locked in this internal conflict. And the conflict is so strong it conjures up or maybe be creates, a spirit, a powerful spirit of conflict.

This spirit, it manifests to a Nefantar of this clan, and it says, here is a dagger for you, a dagger made of obsidian, and if you kill your brother the Chief with it, I will grant you eternal life, and victory in all battles, and eternal livelihood.

And then, the same spirit, it manifests to the Ammatar Chief of this clan, and it says, here is a dagger for you, a dagger made of obsidian, and if you kill your sister the Heir with it, I will grant you eternal life, and victory in all battles, and eternal livelihood.

The Chief and the Heir, they both say yes, and they take the cursed dagger with them, and they hide it, and they go to a dinner together, and they sit down, and they make pleasant talk, and the daggers burn on their belts.

And during the dinner, they get into a heated argument, and in the height of it, one of them takes out the dagger, and raises their hand… and then the other pulls out theirs. And they look at each other, and they realize what each has done, and they put the knives on the table.

But the clan, witnessing this, they see that each of them sold out the other. And with that realization, the clan is done, it is broken, it is dispersed, it is split into two, and into those who want nothing with either of them. What is left is the Chief and the Heir and the two knives, and once they are alone, there is nothing left.

What is the morale of this story?


One True Law

In a certain land there stood a tower, great and high and majestic, so tall that it could be seen from every town and every village and every farmhouse in the land, without exception, and this was understood to be right and just and appropriate, for this was the Domain of Law, and this tower was the Tower of Law, and at its pinnacle, beneath only the dome of the heavens and the great sheltering parasol that was present, or not, as he willed, sat the Speaker of Law.

From the Speaker of Law the Law flowed, for his will was Law made manifest, and from his high seat went forth to every corner of the land the Deliverers of Law, who brought Law to the people, and also the Hands of Law, who enforced Law and punished transgressors, and the Eyes of Law, who watched always to guarantee compliance with Law.

This was a peaceful land, for by Law to raise one’s hand against one’s fellow was to lose it.

It was a mannerly land, for by Law one who spoke a curse would have their tongue seared with a glowing hot coal, and by Law one who jostled others would be made to stand two days in a dark and narrow box, its sides lined with wicked thorns.

Further, by Law once the Deliverers of Law had carried Law forth-- and, in full, it was voluminous indeed!-- all were deemed to know it and failing to know it by no means excused trangression, and so, too, this was a knowledgeable land-- at least in matters of Law!

And, too, it was a quiet land, for by Law one who by undue shouting and alarum disturbed the neighbors would for a year be gagged, and a repeat offender’s tongue be impaled on a spike, ownerless, at the tower base, there to rot along with the tongues of liars and slanderers.

But for the tongues of those who spoke against Law, no spike awaited; rather, for them it would be their vocal cords severed, along with their necks, by the Grandmaster Hand of Law; and their heads would fall through the air from the very Seat of Law itself, wind whistling in their ears, a full minute, it was said, before their skulls cracked against the wide and winding stair up which ascended the endless procession of those presenting petition-- or presented for judgment-- to the Speaker.

This Grandmaster Hand sat day in and day out below the Speaker on his high dais, and lower than no other save the Speaker’s voiceless attendants when the Speaker wanted his parasol (and they hardly counted). Bound beyond any other by heavy oaths to the ponderous weight of Law, it was his grim duty to carry out certain dictates of the Law and judgments of the Speaker. In a land of many Laws and many penalties, his was a specific and singular duty: the dealing, only, of death. Though he was, in truth, a soft-hearted man and could often be seen to weep as his swift and heavy blade cleaved the bodies of those his duty bade him slay, he never hesitated.

The Grandmaster Hand was head of his order, and the Law had many Hands, but when a single Hand was spoken of, throughout the land all knew it was this one, dread Hand.

Now the present Speaker was a troubled soul who had himself been once a petitioner on the stairs far below, where he had borne witness to his predecessor’s unfortunate demise from a false step while descending the dais. From this dramatic introduction to his high seat he had acquired a morbid fear of heights, and among his first acts as Speaker of Law had been to lay in Law that on pain of death the winds themselves must bear the Speaker aloft should he fall and on no account let him plummet to his splattery doom. The Speaker possessed perhaps some skepticism of his own powers, for he had thereafter sought at every opportunity to persuade himself of them. The Deliverers hurried day and night, the Hands were never idle, and the Eyes kept such constant vigil that their numbers nearly tripled for the purpose (for a sleeping eye sees only dreams).

As for the Hand, his duty was absolute and his Speaker of temperamental disposition. His blade sang through flesh and bone, hewed dog (for the Speaker loathed dogs, the noisy, smelly brutes), woman, child, and man-- and, twice, a horse, lifted to the Speaker’s high seat through great difficulty and by different means each time, only, once cleft in twain, to descend again by the graceful method afforded to all, regardless of rank or station, who dwell at the bottom of gravity wells, and at a rate that much dismayed the line of petitioners waiting in orderly queue on that wide and winding stair at the tower base.

And with every pointless, cruel, and senseless death, the Hand wept. During the daylight hours when the Speaker of Law held court, neither the Hand’s eyes nor his blade were often dry.

Throughout the slaughter, the Speaker took great comfort in his Hand’s unending tears, for the Speaker feared also traitors. Here, at least, was one who wept unceasingly at what he was called to do, yet did it without fail: a servant the proof of whose loyalty trickled constantly from his cheeks and dripped from his chin.

And so it might have gone.

Now it was Law that the Speaker’s court was to be held by day, every day, during the daylight hours, and for the most part this suited the Speaker fine, for aside from heights, dogs, and traitors, the Speaker possessed also a morbid fear of the dark, which seemed to him to conceal at every turn a bottomless abyss. Associated ever with the sun, he ascended his dais with the dawn, descended with the dusk, and was ne’er to be found in the dim hours between. On cloudy days he was assisted by a helpful timepiece, the only one of its day, built into the structure of the tower itself. Tuned with precision to the perceived motions of the sun, it traced also the paths of the moons. This device should ever match the cycles of the heavens: this, too, was Law.

And so it was with alarm that the Speaker one morning observed upon his daily schedule a notation that around midday the sky and land would darken for a time. Upon assuming his dais the Speaker proclaimed that he would first see his Timekeepers, and, in accordance with Law, they were brought. The Speaker then demanded of them the cause of this unseemly and disorderly incidence of darkness.

The Timekeeper-senior explained that the cause was a confluence of the moons, most rare and miraculous yet long predicted, in the skies above. Any single moon was too small to hide the disk of the sun, and indeed the passing of one’s shadow across it was a not-infrequent event, and could be observed in the spot of sunlight shining through a pinprick hole or, more directly, through a piece of smoked glass. Today, for the first time in almost two centuries, the moons would converge, all three at just the right time and at the right angles to, briefly, cover the sun.

When the Speaker of Law asked why he had not learned of this sooner, the Timekeepers pointed out that by the Speaker’s Law discussion of happenings in the sky was forbidden, as talk of weather was boring and distracted folk from their proper toils on the ground.

At this, the Speaker, frustrated and enraged, declared that he forbade it, forbade it absolutely, and declared by Law that the Timekeepers must cancel these celestial shenanigans at once.

But this, the Timekeeper-senior explained, was impos–

And proceeded no further, on account of a parting of body and head at the middle of the voice box by the Speaker’s loyal and ever-watchful, weeping Hand. The Timekeeper-junior observed the Senior’s expression in the moment before it tumbled off the platform edge, then haltingly noted that by Law, indeed, the heavens and timepiece must ever match, and hurried off to adjust the timepiece accordingly while the triumphant Speaker got on with his day.

They had cleared a light morning docket requiring only six executions, much to the Hand’s relief, and were in recess for lunch when the light of the fine clear day began noticeably to dim. The Speaker checked the elaborate timepiece dial which, indeed, displayed a brilliant and unoccluded sun. The Speaker then demanded the return of the Timekeeper-senior (recently promoted), who was, in this moment of crisis, nowhere to be found.

The Speaker was frantic. Law forbade the Speaker to descend the dais until sundown, and to re-Speak such firm, established, and weighty Law sufficiently to make descending permissible would take hours, at least! A weird and tainted gloom descended over the land, and with terror piercing his heart like a spike of smoldering ice the Speaker stared into that traitor sky and demanded its death. Bring before me the moons, bring before me the sun, let them all bow before my Hand and taste his swift, sure sword!

The Hand took in the spectacle as these panicked cries of the avatar of Law itself smashed into his duty-hobbled mind-- and like a stone to a glass pane, broke through. Cold clarity blew between his ears, a window he had never known was closed now irrevocably open. His sword, that ugly chunk of sharpened metal, moved, rose, feather-light in his hand, and its ringing sang in his heart as he struck.

They came at dusk, the Hands, their duty-laden boots trudging up the wide and winding blood-stained stair. The day had been calm, with no wind to scatter falling objects, and they picked their way past seven large pieces of fallen meat and eight smaller ones, and ascended the tower.

The Hand, the Grandmaster, knelt, leaning on his heavy sword, now stained with dried blood, by the Seat of Law and the ruined, lifeless form still seated there. The attendants had fled, and the setting sun painted the whole scene in wine-- in white, rose, and red. They gathered round, his students, his disciples, voices rustling like leaves, armor clattering like so many empty cans rolling before the wind.

The Hand of Law hefted himself to his feet, hefted his sword-- his prop-- to his hand. He looked at them, this legion sworn and bound to the old order, and let the sword sway in his hand, feeling its weight-- trivial, paired with his own profound strength.

He looked, then, at the enthroned corpse, and the smile he hadn’t realized he’d been wearing faded, if only a little.

“We must locate his successor,” he said.


Why is the sea salty?

Once upon a time before the Darkness, the ocean we call the Great Wet Desert wasn’t a desert at all, for its waves and winds were gentle and predictable, and its water was fresh like that from the ice of the North, and it was full of sweet fish and delicious seaweed. Ships could sail around it and never starve or thirst or be threatened by a sudden storm.

During the Darkness on the coast of Coricia lived a Holder who was known for being a stingy and ruthless lord, and he had in his service an Ammatar governor known for being equally stingy and ruthless.

That man’s clan sailed the sea, and they were equally stingy about it as they were about everything else; they controlled all ships and all ports and all trade in that Holding, so that they alone and their lord that they bought this right from benefited and grew rich and fat, while every other tribesman and -woman in the area grew poorer and poorer and starved.

When the Midsummer feast was approaching, a tribeswoman and a speaker for many clans in the region went to this stingy governor, and she said: “In the name of all that is holy, hear me. My people are starving. We’re starving and it is Midsummer. Make any request you want but have mercy on us, give me something to feed them with, at least this one night, that should be one of celebration. Or I swear on God and on all gods, the people will rebel, and the township will burn.”

The stingy governor did not like the idea of his township and easy living burning to ground, so grudgingly he ordered some food to be sent to the slaves of the Holding, in celebration, and then he said to the woman: “You got what you wanted, now go to Hel, and never come back into my sight.”

This was not the request the speaker woman had expected, but she had given her word to follow any request, so she went to the ocean’s shore, wandering it and wondering how she could find an entry to the underworld. When she was sitting at a great rock and considering if she should just jump into the water and hope she would be dragged to the world under the bottom of the ocean when she died, a great shark rose from the ocean and to her amazement it spoke to her.

“Why are you crying, daughter of the Tribes?”
“O Great Shark, I owe a favor to fulfill a request to go to Hel, but I do not know the way to that underworld.”
“You have paid that favour by coming to me, for I am Hel the Great Shark. But never before have I heard of such a favour; how did you come to owe it?”

The tribeswoman told the Great Shark the story, and the woes her people were suffering in the hands of the stingy Holder and the even worse governor. The shark grew pensive. “How terrible it must be to have been born a human,” it said. “Here, I will give you the gift of endless bounty. Here is a small mill that once was lost in the sea by a careless person of your kind. Put some pebbles from the shores of the great ocean in it, and with the spell I will teach you you can grind the sand into any food or drink you like. But keep it secret, keep it safe! It is not a tool for greed.”

And the shark coughed, and out of its mouth flew a small hand grinder, like the ones you would use for corn or coffee. As instructed, the woman put some pebbles into it, and the shark told her the magic words, and she said them, and asked the mill to make her bread and cheese, and those things appeared, and when she had eaten her fill, the shark told her how to stop it.

She thanked the shark, and she took the mill, and her people never had to starve again.

Come next Midsummer, again, the only thing keeping the people alive was the mill. By now, many people knew the woman had something from which sustenance flowed, for no matter how careful she was, bread and butter and herring and apples can only be eaten if they are known about. So many people came to her and they said, please, sister, we have nothing to have a feast on, can you help us?

She felt sorry for them and she told them to come back on the Midsummer night, but be careful, and there would be a feast. She spun bread and meats and fruit, and wine and ale and stronger spirits, all sorts of sweet things and savory things, and little snacks that people loved to eat even after they had eaten enough, and set out to have a feast. But of course, that could not be kept secret, and when the feast started, also the stingy Holder sent his governor and guards to figure out what rebellious act it was that allowed this extravagance to go on.

When the woman saw the governor on site, she withdrew, for she had not forgotten the request she owed, “and stay out of my sight”. But while she was away, the governor spoke to the people present, and a lot of them were drunk, and some wanted to boast, and some were scared, and too many of them told him what they knew of the mill. And with enough bits and pieces, he ordered the woman arrested, and demanded to be given the mill and shown how it could be used, and then he took it with him.

The governor of course already had enough food and drink so he did not need the mill for that. Instead, he put it on one of his trade ships and filled that only with empty sacks and barrels, and sailed out. When he was arriving in the city we now know as Mithuris, he took out the mill, poured some sand in it, said the magic words, and commanded: “Mill, grind me salt!”

The mill started to grind out salt. It poured and poured out of it, filling all the sacks and barrels. But it did not stop there: it just kept on going, salt falling on the cargo deck’s floor, spilling everywhere. “That’s enough now, mill!” the governor said - but he had never asked the woman how to stop it, and she had not told him.

Salt kept filling the ship. The crew begged the governor to throw the mill into the sea, but he refused, searching frantically for a way to stop it instead. When the ship started to tip to one side from the weight of the excess cargo, the captain of it had had enough, and she ordered the mill to be taken from the governor and indeed thrown into the ocean, lest the ship be lost.

The crew like the crew of any ship - space or sea or air - obeyed their captain first and any visiting dignitaries only as the captain tells them to, so they overwhelmed the governor and took the mill and threw it away and it sank to the water - still grinding salt.

The Great Shark felt it fall and it became very angry at the ungrateful humans who had not kept its gift safe as it had instructed, and it thrashed and turned and splashed its tail in its anger. A great storm rose, and the ship already tipping under the salt load tipped further, toppled over, and sank, taking with it all the salt, all the crew, the captain who acted too late and the stingy governor who owned the mill.

And there, even today, in the bottom of the Great Wet Desert, sits the salt mill and grinds salt. And that is why no matter how many fresh rivers run and fresh rains fall into the ocean, it will always remain salty. And the Great Shark is still angry with humans, and has not spoken to our kind since, and its unpredictable spirits make the ocean unpredictable, and that is why sudden storms and scissor-tooth sharks and great serpents are now a threat to all who sail it.


There was once a young fish

He swims up to this older fish and says,

“I’m trying to find this thing they call the ocean.”

“The ocean?” says the older fish, “That’s what you’re in right now.”

“This?” says the young fish, “This is water. What I want is the ocean.”


Is this story supposed to be a parody ?

No. Heresy possibly, but not parody.