mastodon 4.8.0-alpha.3+glitchIt's the eternal recurrence of the same
Hellebore in the sunshine.
#gardening
The Hare of Herz paced the cabin, the Glimmergold‑Medaille warm in his paw. He knew exactly what he could do, what he should do, though he almost wished he didn’t. He drew a deep breath down to the bottom of his lungs, held it, then let it out slowly. He wrapped the medal in cloth and set it in its box. “For Tortoise,” he said, and nodded. The decision was made.
Tortoise’s shadow had long faded from the threshold. The kitchen was clean and tidy. In the dimming winter afternoon light, the Hare of Herz watched the schnurblekessel wheeze a final breath of steam, leaving only silence. He held his cooling cup, staring into the fireplace. His pockets held nothing but a bit of dandelion and a smooth river stone. "How, in all that is holy, can I help him?" he whispered to the empty room. "I have nothing."
Tortoise tugged at his scarf. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "I shouldn't have asked. I didn't mean to start a schnurbel‑brawl or make you schnieffen‑bawl.” Hare blinked, and smiled at the unintended rhyme. Tortoise sighed and his shell drooped. "It's just hard to admit I'm short of cash." He grimaced and wished he could change the subject.
Hare's ears twitched as he glanced around the cabin, hoping a stray pfennig might leap from the shadows. Only straw, old nageln, and the sulky schnurblekessel stared back. Tortoise shifted, uneasy at the panic in Hare's eyes as they darted around the kitchen. Hare felt his cheeks warm. "Ah, I just, my education in money matters has always been a bit lacking," he murmured, embarrassed he couldn’t lend any money at once.
The Tortoise sat down with a sigh and a groan. “It’s my ankles,” he said. “Not as flexible as they used to be.” The Hare of Herz nodded; his own joints were full of schnirkel‑creaks. Each week they shared plinkentea and old stories. “Listen, my friend,” Tortoise said, “could you lend me a bit of money? Just until next week.” Hare set his cup down. All he had was straw and a few old nails.
A Grimm tale: The oven’s heat crawled up Gretel’s neck as she scrubbed the hearth. Through the heavy door, she heard the rhythmic scrape of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. Hansel was eating again. Each metallic clink felt like a clock ticking toward a feast she was forced to prepare. Her chest tightened with a cold, sharp dread. Did he even see the cage anymore, or only the buttered mash? She gripped her rag until her knuckles went white. "If he only eats," she muttered to herself, "he will forget how to run."
A Grimm tale: The sugar-coated bars tasted so good, but Hansel found them hard to swallow. The old woman slid a bowl of buttered mash through the grate, the scent thick and cloying. Hansel retreated into the shadows, his stomach tight with a dull, insistent ache. Every swallow felt like a betrayal of Gretel’s sobbing in the kitchen, yet he gripped the spoon until his knuckles went white. "Whether I am eaten or escape," he whispered to the dark, "I must first survive."
The cup was still warm, the coffee hot. Outside, the bare branches divided the pale blues and coppers of the sunrise into a stained‑glass window, the colours shifting by the minute. He wanted the moment to last, but already the coffee was cooling. Perhaps another cup would buy more time.
Dora, Arch and Jug go exploring:
"The GPS says the drop is right here," she said, holding the knife in one hand and the phone in the other. In the cold dead silence of the night they could hear a safety click off, not too far away. "Try to look useful, fellas. We’re being watched." Arch and Jug shivered. Their feet were wet and they just wanted to go home.
It was almost Spring when Tortoise came to visit the Hare of Herz. Snowdrops poked through dark, wet earth, and meltwater ran in tiny schnurbel-rivers. As they sipped tea, Hare tapped his foot, a quiet herzentremor of nerves. Tortoise shuffled. At last Hare said, "I've been thinking… and I've found a way to help with your Pfennig‑problems."
For a moment the cabin fell away, and the Hare of Herz stood again on the old track, the crowd a blur of faces and a deafening roar of cheers, his heart racing, paws stretched out in triumph. His greatest race. Then he blinked and was back on his trittenstuhl, the dust settling, a ghost‑flutter of paws and speed he’d never match again. The Glimmergold‑Medaille glowed in his paw, and he smiled at the sweet sadness of a triumph long gone, won by youth, luck, and pure willpower.
Stink bug ready to leap into next week.
The Hare of Herz balanced on top a rickety trittenstuhl, peering into the shadows of his bookshelf. A fine pale dust, the ghostly remains of a flour, yeast, and many years of domestic life had coated the spines. He moved his father’s old book on carrot-craft, and a small kummerbox slid forward. Inside was the Glimmergold-Medaille, bright even in this gloom. His greatest race. His flitzerzeit. The Hare traced the etched laurel with his paw. The cold metal warmed against the pad, and for a moment, the heavy silence of the cabin was replaced by the phantom roar of a cheering crowd.
"There must be a way," the Hare of Herz muttered, ears pitched forward. He rummaged through old boxes, shook the plinkentee tins, and even peered into the old schnurblekessel in case a pfennig might be stuck under the limescale. There was nothing but an aromatic coppery tang. But he wasn’t ready to give up. He had to find a way to help his old friend Tortoise. Where else could he have stashed away money?
Vana of the Star-Bison
Vana Vane stood in the grey Phoros dust, her hand steady on her ancient beast. The Star-Bison’s DNA held the map to a lost empire, a secret every cutthroat in the port would kill to claim. As black-hulled dreadnoughts tore through the atmosphere, Vana realized the invaders weren't after the beast -- they were after her! "I can save this world," she whispered, "but only if I betray the one creature I swore to protect."
#microfiction #vss #booksneverwritten