/lit/ - Literature

>>18591119
2/2
Howling our song, all at once, together, with blood on our tongues and bodies covered in leather. Two brothers go rear-guard and vanguard. Where is the other? On the slopes of these hills, the final brother is hungrier than usual, cornering one of the man’s domesticated beasts. He gestures at the nearest stick he can find. It’s a blanched beech limb, thicker than a man’s arm, which he slams over, coming down from a sharp angle, the domesticated beast’s head. Moo-mooing aloud in duress, it collapses. And my brother bores his finger into the incision he’d just made, which looks like a red, little mouth. Rotating his index round as to make the chasm wider, he creates an entrance for his tongue. He takes from the hole, folding his tongue round it and pulling it out, a prettily pink morsel. Chewing, he does. Then howling and gnashing, then shrieks and roars. Every so often, Cragjungen come down to muss up their beaks.

Back at running and dashing, howling too, we’re running down the mountain which we’re proud to call home. By the valley, I can see a dozen herds being reared by a man in a farmer’s cap. Grumbling aloud, we do. Tasty morsel, I tell my brothers in a screech, who agree in jeers, and then a staccato gnashing goes up. Sound rises. Click. Click. Their teeth go in a uniform beat, when the top incisors meet the bottom. On the slopes of these hills is where the Cragjungen descend, holding scabbards and hungry bellies with no end.