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The Horrible Penguin Returns
Life in the valley was simple; simple people, simple pleasures, simple work. Of the families that tilled the land, the Norwens were the most numerous and the most successful, owning two hundred acres of fielding land and a sizeable amount of sheep. The lives of the Norwens was ruled by the seasons, and cycled endlessly through their generations, as it had done for almost 200 years. The men of the family enjoyed their simple work, and were wholly content with their company, their wives, and their children. Of an evening, they would gather in the Horse and Mule and speak their minds slowly but considerately, and in their broad accents into their jugs of ale. They had no aspirations past the valley, and never thought of the world outside.
The Norwen women, while wholly inbred and incapable of measured speech, were loyal and productive, weaving clothes for their families, churning butter for their bread and encouraging their children to fall in love with each other. But in the Norwen women lay a deep desire to unravel the mystery of the world outside the valley. After the sun had crept from the sky, and their children were in-bred, she would stand on the gravel outside her home and look wistfully yet ever so longingly towards the smoke of Engwen. Although she felt her anchor had fallen completely in the valley, the wind inside her pulled her insides and out away from it.
Every so often there would come a stranger from the town who would bring with him a picture-box and a short stick, and the Norwen women would flock to him and beat their brows with a furrowed pleasure at having someone new and fresh to pierce their sodden moods. Once the stranger had been sufficiently subdued, the women would lumber over to him and drag him towards the pig-sanctuary, where he would be forced to live as a pig, while the Norwen women took their turn taking his seed and introducing a wave of new genes into their family, and fending off the inevitable onset of mutation for another year.
And so it went for many years, and no one complained, and no one rebelled, and all were seemingly happy in their plentiful yet modest existence. That summer, however, Tom, the youngest of all the women, was working the apple trees and bearing their fruit through the orchard one hot afternoon when he saw a distant figure in black standing amongst the trunks of the aged trees. Being an unassumingly confident and unquestionably friendly man, he made his way towards the figure, which stood small and lean against the ashen timbers of the orchard. As he approached, he felt a pain inside him rising, rising through the tumult of his suppressed sexual desires, rising through his bowels, unsettling them, emptying them, and then falling, falling as if it were on a terrible string, as if it were a blind puppy on the hangman’s rope. He felt its presence, and he dared not cease his forward motion, as he ploughed right into the frail figure of the dying woman, crushing her bones beneath his overwhelming feet. Tom kept going, and he traversed the whole of the land, through river, stream, desert, forest, field, road and person, until he came to the edge of the world, and fell from a cliff to his doom.
Then the horrible penguin danced on his shattered corpse.
What a horrible penguin.
Life in the valley was simple; simple people, simple pleasures, simple work. Of the families that tilled the land, the Norwens were the most numerous and the most successful, owning two hundred acres of fielding land and a sizeable amount of sheep. The lives of the Norwens was ruled by the seasons, and cycled endlessly through their generations, as it had done for almost 200 years. The men of the family enjoyed their simple work, and were wholly content with their company, their wives, and their children. Of an evening, they would gather in the Horse and Mule and speak their minds slowly but considerately, and in their broad accents into their jugs of ale. They had no aspirations past the valley, and never thought of the world outside.
The Norwen women, while wholly inbred and incapable of measured speech, were loyal and productive, weaving clothes for their families, churning butter for their bread and encouraging their children to fall in love with each other. But in the Norwen women lay a deep desire to unravel the mystery of the world outside the valley. After the sun had crept from the sky, and their children were in-bred, she would stand on the gravel outside her home and look wistfully yet ever so longingly towards the smoke of Engwen. Although she felt her anchor had fallen completely in the valley, the wind inside her pulled her insides and out away from it.
Every so often there would come a stranger from the town who would bring with him a picture-box and a short stick, and the Norwen women would flock to him and beat their brows with a furrowed pleasure at having someone new and fresh to pierce their sodden moods. Once the stranger had been sufficiently subdued, the women would lumber over to him and drag him towards the pig-sanctuary, where he would be forced to live as a pig, while the Norwen women took their turn taking his seed and introducing a wave of new genes into their family, and fending off the inevitable onset of mutation for another year.
And so it went for many years, and no one complained, and no one rebelled, and all were seemingly happy in their plentiful yet modest existence. That summer, however, Tom, the youngest of all the women, was working the apple trees and bearing their fruit through the orchard one hot afternoon when he saw a distant figure in black standing amongst the trunks of the aged trees. Being an unassumingly confident and unquestionably friendly man, he made his way towards the figure, which stood small and lean against the ashen timbers of the orchard. As he approached, he felt a pain inside him rising, rising through the tumult of his suppressed sexual desires, rising through his bowels, unsettling them, emptying them, and then falling, falling as if it were on a terrible string, as if it were a blind puppy on the hangman’s rope. He felt its presence, and he dared not cease his forward motion, as he ploughed right into the frail figure of the dying woman, crushing her bones beneath his overwhelming feet. Tom kept going, and he traversed the whole of the land, through river, stream, desert, forest, field, road and person, until he came to the edge of the world, and fell from a cliff to his doom.
Then the horrible penguin danced on his shattered corpse.
What a horrible penguin.
demi-magical, without a doubt
That was... better.
" when the children were in-bred "
Amusing
" when the children were in-bred "
Amusing
The Horrible Penguin Returns
Life in the valley was simple; simple people, simple pleasures, simple work. Of the families that tilled the land, the Norwens were the most numerous and the most successful, owning two hundred acres of fielding land and a sizeable amount of sheep. The lives of the Norwens was ruled by the seasons, and cycled endlessly through their generations, as it had done for almost 200 years. The men of the family enjoyed their simple work, and were wholly content with their company, their wives, and their children. Of an evening, they would gather in the Horse and Mule and speak their minds slowly but considerately, and in their broad accents into their jugs of ale. They had no aspirations past the valley, and never thought of the world outside.
The Norwen women, while wholly inbred and incapable of measured speech, were loyal and productive, weaving clothes for their families, churning butter for their bread and encouraging their children to fall in love with each other. But in the Norwen women lay a deep desire to unravel the mystery of the world outside the valley. After the sun had crept from the sky, and their children were in-bred, she would stand on the gravel outside her home and look wistfully yet ever so longingly towards the smoke of Engwen. Although she felt her anchor had fallen completely in the valley, the wind inside her pulled her insides and out away from it.
Every so often there would come a stranger from the town who would bring with him a picture-box and a short stick, and the Norwen women would flock to him and beat their brows with a furrowed pleasure at having someone new and fresh to pierce their sodden moods. Once the stranger had been sufficiently subdued, the women would lumber over to him and drag him towards the pig-sanctuary, where he would be forced to live as a pig, while the Norwen women took their turn taking his seed and introducing a wave of new genes into their family, and fending off the inevitable onset of mutation for another year.
And so it went for many years, and no one complained, and no one rebelled, and all were seemingly happy in their plentiful yet modest existence. That summer, however, Tom, the youngest of all the women, was working the apple trees and bearing their fruit through the orchard one hot afternoon when he saw a distant figure in black standing amongst the trunks of the aged trees. Being an unassumingly confident and unquestionably friendly man, he made his way towards the figure, which stood small and lean against the ashen timbers of the orchard. As he approached, he felt a pain inside him rising, rising through the tumult of his suppressed sexual desires, rising through his bowels, unsettling them, emptying them, and then falling, falling as if it were on a terrible string, as if it were a blind puppy on the hangman’s rope. He felt its presence, and he dared not cease his forward motion, as he ploughed right into the frail figure of the dying woman, crushing her bones beneath his overwhelming feet. Tom kept going, and he traversed the whole of the land, through river, stream, desert, forest, field, road and person, until he came to the edge of the world, and fell from a cliff to his doom.
Then the horrible penguin danced on his shattered corpse.
What a horrible penguin.
Life in the valley was simple; simple people, simple pleasures, simple work. Of the families that tilled the land, the Norwens were the most numerous and the most successful, owning two hundred acres of fielding land and a sizeable amount of sheep. The lives of the Norwens was ruled by the seasons, and cycled endlessly through their generations, as it had done for almost 200 years. The men of the family enjoyed their simple work, and were wholly content with their company, their wives, and their children. Of an evening, they would gather in the Horse and Mule and speak their minds slowly but considerately, and in their broad accents into their jugs of ale. They had no aspirations past the valley, and never thought of the world outside.
The Norwen women, while wholly inbred and incapable of measured speech, were loyal and productive, weaving clothes for their families, churning butter for their bread and encouraging their children to fall in love with each other. But in the Norwen women lay a deep desire to unravel the mystery of the world outside the valley. After the sun had crept from the sky, and their children were in-bred, she would stand on the gravel outside her home and look wistfully yet ever so longingly towards the smoke of Engwen. Although she felt her anchor had fallen completely in the valley, the wind inside her pulled her insides and out away from it.
Every so often there would come a stranger from the town who would bring with him a picture-box and a short stick, and the Norwen women would flock to him and beat their brows with a furrowed pleasure at having someone new and fresh to pierce their sodden moods. Once the stranger had been sufficiently subdued, the women would lumber over to him and drag him towards the pig-sanctuary, where he would be forced to live as a pig, while the Norwen women took their turn taking his seed and introducing a wave of new genes into their family, and fending off the inevitable onset of mutation for another year.
And so it went for many years, and no one complained, and no one rebelled, and all were seemingly happy in their plentiful yet modest existence. That summer, however, Tom, the youngest of all the women, was working the apple trees and bearing their fruit through the orchard one hot afternoon when he saw a distant figure in black standing amongst the trunks of the aged trees. Being an unassumingly confident and unquestionably friendly man, he made his way towards the figure, which stood small and lean against the ashen timbers of the orchard. As he approached, he felt a pain inside him rising, rising through the tumult of his suppressed sexual desires, rising through his bowels, unsettling them, emptying them, and then falling, falling as if it were on a terrible string, as if it were a blind puppy on the hangman’s rope. He felt its presence, and he dared not cease his forward motion, as he ploughed right into the frail figure of the dying woman, crushing her bones beneath his overwhelming feet. Tom kept going, and he traversed the whole of the land, through river, stream, desert, forest, field, road and person, until he came to the edge of the world, and fell from a cliff to his doom.
Then the horrible penguin danced on his shattered corpse.
What a horrible penguin.