Rest Easy, Private Giacobbe

On his daily summer treks to Lac des Cloches, young Malinconico would often take a shortcut on foot through woods and brush off the Gant Town road. Right off the roadway, he would notice some sort of arched sign that was rusted and slowly being encroached by the growing foliage.
  Upon inspection, it mentioned a man’s name — a self-professed memorial of sorts.
  As he further pawed his way through the thicket, he noticed a rusting swing set, apparently forgotten through the decades.
  Even as a nine-year-old, it troubled him — this was something built in memory of someone, yet it was obviously becoming forgotten.
  And yet in reality, the context was not that of ‘decades’ past, but of a mere five or six years most recent. Remember — these were the years when the louche mores of shifting times took precedence over tradition and observance.
  And as the miles distanced themselves from young Malinconico through the years, this disrespectful image remained a stone in his shoe.
  With the advent of the Internet Crystal Ball, Malinconico dug deep enough to uncover the actual story:

  Local boy gets drafted to go to war, only to be killed by Friendly Fire within three months.

  Poor devil.
  Jeez, [local] folks, how much effort does it take to maintain a remembrance of a fallen son?

  Fortunately, years later, with the help of said Internet Crystal Ball, news came forth that some township folks made the endeavour to clean up, spruce up, enhance and maintain the young soldier’s memorial.
  It gives one hope.

  Rest easy, Private Giacobbe.

Pungladeshi Placitum Sanjak

It’s there if you want it

The terminals glowed seductively with images of playing cards and lewd smuttage. Drawn were the eyes of the indolent and lascivious with both jaws and spines a-slackened.
  Vices aside, were these beings the downtrodden or those denied opportunity?
  For the sake of argument, let us posit that they are.
  What could such hapless souls do?
  They might seek knowledge and edification through the printed word. A library, perhaps.
  Books on almost any available subject. The classics. History and maths. Self-help books. Vocational guides.
  Any of these would be a positive first step.
  But the savvy or cynical reader can see where this is going.
  For this room, in which these wretched sorts stare at screens filled with poker hands, penii, and pudendae, lay beneath shelf after shelf of book after book.
  One million books over their heads. Literally.

  It’s there if you want it.

The Coward Iōnnēs Elias

  From afar, one could see the body tumbling down the face of Skumbras Mount. Arse over tit, the figure bounced off rocky projections of the scarp, until it rolled to a halt before a horse-drawn wagon parked at the base of the mount.
  A bald head leaned out of the wagon and peered at the bloody corpse on the ground. It was Buzas Putras, whose skull was obviously smashed in by a spiked weapon before his tumble down Skumbras Mount.
  From the wagon, Iōnnēs Elias lifted his head to survey the structure atop the mountain. He knew full well what was going on.
  The celebration hall up there was holding a wake for Little Xander, last defender of Revre Sbodiza, the fortress that Iōnnēs Elias himself had aggressively taken over as Liege Insistent of the new dominion.
  Little Xander had long been a loyal protector of the fortress, regardless of who held the reins of power. But he was held in high disdain by Iōnnēs Elias, Buzas Putras, and others of the new regime, only because he was the last vestige of the old regime, those that had trickled away in a Brain/Brawn Drain,
  This view was held all out of spite, ignoring Xander’s fealty and accrued wisdom. So much so, that they actually made life so miserable for him, telling him, “You are no longer wanted,” knowing this would literally break his heart.
  Which is exactly what happened when Xander was ousted. He had stood at the gates staring up at his beloved fortress when his heart gave out. He was dead before he hit the ground.
  And so here we are, at Little Xander’s wake, where friends of the village come to pay respects.

  Of course, Iōnnēs Elias did not have the courage to show his face at the memorial for the man who defended his very fortress. He sent Buzas Putras as emissary to hypocritically offer hollow hosannas in front of the crowd, trying to save face for the new regime. Most there saw this ingratiation for what it was, but for one Young Suramokas, it was beyond the pale.
  He dispatched Putras and watched him plummet down the mount as the cowardly liege gazed up at him from the safety of his wagon.
  Suramokas stared down into the eyes of Iōnnēs Elias and bellowed:
  “Iōnnēs Elias, thou son of a whore, hast not even the manly fortitude to show his face at a remembrance for the fallen who so loyally served thou.
  ”We who have gathered in tribute upon the mount, look down upon thou, most literally, as ye cower in pusillanimity in your rickety wagon.
  “Hark! Thine complete cowardice is on full display before the townsfolk. They have seen it, and thou cannot refute it.”
  Nothing could possibly rebut this damning statement. And so, fortress Revre Sbodiza, unable to counter the exposed reality, disintegrated into useless, grey dust.