Harvester's Smile

In a village on the brink of starvation, all that matters is the Harvest Moon Tribute.

 

There once was a city, a city with no name.  After all, is there a need for names when you are alone, and none can remember how it all began--does one name this universe?  For the city and its people lived alone, save for a pair of travelers entering silently at the draw of the harvest moon, collecting the tribute, then fading away unnoticed.  Perhaps in the past, someone had tried to ask these men where they came from; but no one could remember when these men had spoken, or made so much the sound of footfalls.  But if a person had asked them, such a soul no longer existed.  And the entire city feared them, feared them as much as they did not understand them.  So the tribute was gathered, and meekly left for the eerie pair, and not a word was spoken.

 

Above the city, along a perilous crag rose the Lord’s Castle.  It seemed to rise to the moon itself, striking awe into the hearts of all who saw it.  For while the city seemed consumed with age, its buildings dilapidated, the waste of generations seeming to settle into the small valley; the Castle was, to all those below, far older.  The city’s streets might be compared with the rot which inevitably consumes all things, yet the Castle above seemed untouched and majestic; tempered with age like the finest of port.  If one stared too long at the towers above, their eyes would wander its twisting complexity, forever lost, never able to tell where the Castle began, and where it ended.  Dawn of morning would greet the Castle first, light creeping its way down the spires to the city below.  Likewise, the final rays of day would shine forth from the tower, before the Castle would cast the city into night.

 

It was one of these very nights, where our story begins, with those rays of light fading from the streets.  The men of the city shuffled their way to the single tavern which occupied the city.  Inside, no one ordered a single dish, nor filled their mugs; for the pub had nothing to offer save a single bottle which sat alone above the mantle.  A bottle which cried out to a shared melancholy that only a draught could dispel.  With hollow eyes the men would gather, trying to forget their cares.  Yet despite their weak attempts at laughter, each man’s hollow eyes held death, and death alone, for those who met his gaze.  One may wonder, why gather with those who remind you of your own impending demise?  Because these men dared not return home and look upon their families, to be reminded of the inevitable fate their children shared.  How can a man return home with nothing, and looking his children in their sunken eyes tell them there is no hope?  So at the pub the men would spend the night, ashamed, and afraid; for in the end, all men are cowards.

 

But these men shouldn’t be judged; after all, famine makes a man weak in many ways.  Blight had spread across each man’s prized crop--the potato.  So much land was used for growing the Harvest Moon Tribute that the people could grow nothing else to feed themselves.  So the people had no choice but to rely on the potato as food for themselves.  But now their crop of potato was consumed with rot, unfit for consumption.  Yet while the people’s crop was devastated, and the city suffered a wasting starvation, the tribute was untouched.  For the city grew wheat for the strangers; a wheat which rustled in the night wind, tempting every ravenous stomach which heard it.  But the fear of the strangers, and even more so, the awe for their unseen Lord above, left each man too afraid to touch the wheat.  So just as the bottle tempted the men in the pub, likewise did the wheat to every person who slept with an empty hunger which gradually consumed them; but just like the bottle, the tribute was left untouched.

 

Or so the citizens assumed, although each knew it was not so.  “Just a few grains; for my children”, each mother had thought.  And so, while the men were at the pub trying to forget their plight, their wives would sneak out in the night, avoiding the lit streets, making their way by moonlight to the fields which their husbands labored through the day.  Quietly they would take just a few stalks; no one would miss just a few.  After all, unlike a bottle, a field is never sealed; it is easier to take a few sips without any notice.

 

It was only a matter of time before the Foreman noticed that there was something wrong with the tribute.  Looking out over the wheat, he noticed that, while subtle, there was less than there should be.  He dismissed the thought for several days, he was just being paranoid, but eventually the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right prompted him to investigate.  He meticulously examined each stalk; sure enough, here and there throughout the field, he found stalks which had been severed far too cleanly for it to be beast or element.  This troubled the foreman; it was his responsibility, duty, and privilege to oversee the harvest.

 

What would the strangers do if the tribute was not offered in full? What of their Lord?  The foreman was not sure what would happen, but only trouble could come of it.  In the past he had always carried out his duty as required by tradition.  Every year the strangers would collect the wheat, which the foreman had arranged for them, before leaving without a word.  In fact, the foreman had never been thanked for his work, or even had a word of it mentioned to him; he himself had never spoken to the Lord.  While at times he felt irritated, disgruntled, at the lack of recognition for his hard work, he would banish the thought, “At least I haven’t been brought before the Lord to be admonished.”  Silence was for the best; after all, that was the tradition.

 

If he acted now, enough of the harvest was left, that the strangers shouldn’t notice.  But ignoring this petty thievery would ultimately end with a small yield which would not go unnoticed.  Yet the foreman understood the city’s plight; he himself had been tempted by the wheat, whose protection was his purpose in life. 

 

One may think with rank in the city only second the Mayor, and in turn to the Lord in the Castle, he would be well-fed; however, the famine had spared no one.  If the foreman had wandered the streets in the city above, it was unlikely anyone would have noticed him; he would have been just another emaciated soul among the many.  He understood the pains of the famine as well as any of the men which spent the night at the tavern.  If there was one thing he did not understand, it was the feeling of watching his loved ones wither as well; the foreman had no family.  He spent his nights alone, away from the rest of the city, on the opposing side of the field--outcast, at times viewed with the same distrust and mysticism which surrounded the Harvest Moon strangers.  Yet even if he did not understand a father’s pain, even if he was ostracized by his fellow workers, he was not an unfeeling man.  How could he feel indifferent when even he knew the city’s dark secret?  Families whose loved ones had passed held no funerals--there were no bodies to be buried.  To be pushed so far, even the foreman felt their pain, their desperation...

 

Although the foreman empathized with those who starved, much as himself, he still had a duty to ensure the harvest was delivered as it had been for as long as any could remember.  Conflicted as to what he should do, the foreman decided to consult the Lord of the Castle.  The foreman shifted with anxiety, he didn’t know what he could expect from the Lord of the Castle, what would he even say?  To have to resort to disturbing the peace of their ruler, it showed just how bleak the situation had become; the foreman didn’t have a choice, he would have to resort to breaking the unspoken law.  So choosing his finest clothes, he discreetly made his way towards the narrow and steep path to the Castle.

 

Although he tried to not draw attention to himself, several men in the fields saw him make his way up the road.  After all, the foreman was an oddity himself, and it was rare to see him well dressed--if not unheard of.  Word spread quickly, and by the time that the foreman reached the imposing gate which led up the crag, he had a large entourage of curious onlookers, whispering amongst themselves.  The group made the foreman even more anxious; he disliked attention, and with so many eyes watching, he felt that even the smallest mistake would be his downfall.  Trying to ignore those piercing eyes, the foreman swallowed nervously.  Then, returning his gaze to the gate, he noticed the guards which stood watch; he had forgotten about them.  The guards never came into the city, walked the fields, or so much as spoke with its people; they simply stood guard at the gate and along the path to the Castle above.

 

Clearing his throat with a harsh cough, the foreman addressed the guards, not quite certain as to how one was to address a guard, “I am the Foreman for the Harvest Moon Tribute, I come with urgent business with the Lord, the Harvest is having… is under… is experiencing, complications...”  By the time the foreman finished his fumbled sentence he was flushed with embarrassment, or at least as flushed as a starved man can; he resisted the urge to look back at the many eyes which had certainly taken note of his stuttering.

 

The guards stared at the foreman for several minutes, saying nothing, showing no indication that they had heard a single word.  The crowd behind him rustled, murmuring furiously amongst themselves.  Hesitantly the foreman stepped forward, and as he passed the gate, the guards made no effort to stop him, they simply stared at him.  Perhaps since they made no effort to stop him, he was allowed to pass?  The Foreman uneasily began the long trek up the crag, to the Castle.  He tried to keep his eyes ahead; looking either up or down filled him with a vertigo that threatened to throw him off the narrow path.  Yet staring ahead also made him uneasy, for it seemed that around every bend a guard would be waiting, saying nothing, looking intently at him.  The Foreman tried to avoid their gaze, but inevitably would find himself locking eyes with each guard.  With every locked gaze, he felt as though he would be stopped, as if he was doing something he shouldn’t.  After all, no one had given him implicit permission to speak with the Lord… just… no one had prohibited him either.  So it was with great relief that the Foreman reached the Castle, and finding no guards there, entered the final gate.

 

Gazing up at the towers, the Foreman felt insignificant before such grandeur, such towering majesty.  Upon close examination, the towers were not as untouched by time as they looked in the city below, yet they still seemed every bit as majestic.  Looking around the courtyard the Foreman couldn’t see anyone to greet him except the dried out husks of rose bushes, so hesitantly he made his way through the front entrance.  Dust settled heavily upon the whole entrance, as though no one had been there for years.  Trying to sound as though he belonged there, and with a professionalism which seemed out of place, the Foreman loudly announced his arrival, “Excuse me?  I’m the Foreman, and I have urgent matters to discuss with the Lord of this Castle.”

 

Silence.

 

Across the hall, the Foreman spied a stairway which seemed to lead up into the tower.  The Foreman cautiously ambled to the stairway, looking around the Great Hall; although, as the dust and silence would suggest, he was alone.  So with no other option but to return with nothing, the Foreman continued up the tower, and the next, and the next, until it felt as though there was no end to the Castle.  Time flowed differently here, and the Foreman had no idea how long he had wandered these empty halls.  Was there even a Lord of the Castle?  Who would let these halls fall into such disrepair?  Yet below the guards had stood watch, so there must be something to guard.  With these thoughts in mind, the Foreman finally reached a room, far brighter than the others, with walls made almost entirely of twisted glass.  The glass cast odd refractions across the dusty room, always dancing at the edge of his vision.  With certainty the Foreman was convinced that he had found his destination at last.

 

In the middle of the room lay a small table, with a single flask upon it; and at the far end, near a window which overlooked the city below, stood a chair.  The chair was facing the window, away from the Foreman, but he could tell that someone sat within it--the Lord.  He stood there for a few moments, too nervous to speak, too in awe of the room, and afraid of what the Lord of the Castle may say upon being disturbed.  Meekly the Foreman presented himself, “My Lord, I am but your humble servant, the Foreman of the Harvest Moon Tribute.”

 

Just as it had been all the way up the mountain, silence greeted him.

 

“Sire, the people are starving; I fear what will happen to the city if we don’t quell this famine.  But the Harvest is all we have, and it is only a matter of time…” the Foreman drifted off into silence, unsure of how to proceed.

 

Silence yet again, the Foreman felt the Lord’s displeasure fill the dusty room.  How else should he interpret such silence despite everything he had said?  Nervously the Foreman looked down on the table, upon the flask which lay there without ceremony.  The full nature of the flask’s contents was unknown to the Foreman, and although it took him a moment to understand, its purpose was alarmingly clear to him.  Shocked, the Foreman stuttered, “S-S-Surely you don’t mean…?”

 

The Foreman stopped before finishing his sentence; he had lost his composure, the will of the Lord was absolute, and it was not his place to question it.  He had to restrain himself from finishing, from asking if there was another way, to beg the Lord to reconsider.  With a pained expression, the Foreman bowed at the waist, and uttered the forced words, “I understand.”  With this the Foreman made his way back down the tower, following the disturbed dust which he had left.  Clearly the tribute was every bit as important as he had suspected, and while the Lord had said nothing, the bottle said it all.  No one was to interfere.  With a grimace the Foreman knew what had to be done.  As he descended from the Castle to the city below, he was no longer timid, no longer unsure; he was filled with purpose and conviction.  And while their eyes surely met, the Foreman never noticed the guards or the curious townsfolk below.  

 

As the final light of day left the fields, the Foreman did what had to be done, by the dark of night; never meeting the eyes of his conscience.

 

After that night, the men no longer came to the field to tend to the wheat; the pub was emptied save for a single man who sat alone in the darkness.  And the entire city spent their nights drenched in perpetual nightmares, which persisted even when one awoke--a solanine terror that could not be denied its due.  The city was overcome with haggard lethargy, and looking upon what was once a bustling city, it seemed now only a danse macabre, which all must attend.

 

Only one man understood the cause of the deadly nightmares which hung over the city and its people.  This man was neither starving, nor was he suffering the same night-terrors which the residents below were so persistently plagued with.  His estate was second only to the Lord, and while miniscule in comparison, it afforded him all the land he needed to grow a variety of vegetables and fruits for himself.  One may wonder why the Mayor alone enjoyed this luxury, but such a claim is unfair.  After all, being the Mayor is an important role, one who governs the city so that the Lord above may enjoy his silence.  If he was starving as well, how could he govern with just lucidity?

 

The Mayor worried about his people.  If he could, he’d share his meager bounty with them, but he knew that there was not enough to give any more than a single head of lettuce to each household; in the end, it would never be enough.  But despite not sharing his personal crop, the Mayor still did his best to provide for the city.  Always the people over the tribute; and so had the Mayor and Foreman fallen out with the other.  The Mayor had, every night for the last several weeks, gone down to the tribute field, and plucked as much wheat as he could carry, and taking it back to his home, he spent much of the night hulling the yield.  Then each morning he would discretely deliver a small portion to every household.  Unlike his own crops, there was plenty of wheat to be shared; and in the end, each man had contributed to that field, so they deserved it when they needed it most.  What good was a tribute, if no one could grow it?  Thus was the Mayor’s altruism.

 

No one knew the Mayor was leaving the wheat, and none were foolish enough to tell the others of their mysterious gift.  So the Mayor, and the Mayor alone, knew that the whole city had shared in the tribute; and with this knowledge, the Mayor knew the dreadful truth.  The wheat had been contaminated, and he had unknowingly given it to all the people.  So while much of the city tossed and turned with consuming nightmares, the Mayor likewise slept uneasy, the guilt of what he had not intended weighing on his mind.  Something had to be done, and like it or not, the Mayor realized that he had little choice but to inform the Foreman of the contamination.

 

Early in the morning, the Mayor donned his most plebeian attire, and made his way out to the streets, trying to not draw attention to himself.  But just as the oddity of the Foreman decorating himself for the Lord had drawn an intrigued throng of followers, likewise did the Mayor’s attempts to go unnoticed draw the curiosity of the citizenry.  So much so, that by the time the Mayor had arrived at the Foreman’s meager hut, he had accumulated a ragtag gang of bleak but intrigued citizens.

 

Outside the Foreman’s hut, the Mayor had already forgotten his desire to go unnoticed; with a bold holler, the Mayor demanded the attention of the Foreman, “Come out!  We demand answers!”, for the Mayor had also forgotten that his original intent had been to inform, not to inquire.

 

The Foreman wearily exited his shack, looking every bit as worn as the other men of the city, and yet he had a confidence which the Mayor had never seen in the man, one which unsettled him.  The Foreman stood before the Mayor, silent and unyielding, very much a different man than he remembered.  Not a word was spoken.

 

Unsure of what to make of the Foreman’s behavior, the Mayor shifted uncomfortably.  But the quiet murmuring of the people at the edge of the lot prompted him to action, with a hushed voice of frustration the Mayor growled, “The crop is tainted; the people are in an outcry.  We must act.”  As though on cue, the people’s voices seemed to rise behind him.

 

Again, the Foreman stared at the Mayor, a cold look in his eyes, devoid of empathy.  He seemed both enraged at being asked, or rather informed, of such a thing, yet also completely bored with the notion; as if it somehow no longer involved him.  Again, silence.

 

Finally the Mayor, in frustration bellowed out, “Don’t you care?  Isn’t it your job?  You act as though the city itself is a mere pest!”  The citizens murmured amongst themselves, unsettled and somehow delighted at the Mayor’s outcry.

 

The Mayor locked eyes with an intense glare, a gaze which, while seeming to say nothing, spoke volumes.  Finally breaking his silence the Foreman sternly spoke, “The Lord commands the tribute go undisturbed.”

 

With a sickening realization, the Mayor understood the truth, and with his voice cracking, growing in volume with each spoken word, he shrieked, “You did it?  You poisoned us all?”  Stumbling back he looked to the crowd, which had now grown to a size that seemed impossible, each pair of eyes which gazed back at him seemed darkened, not with fatigue, but with intent.  Looking back at the Foreman, he saw no denial, no remorse.

 

The crowd stirred with a frenzy, enraged at the Foreman.  Only a handful had heard the Mayor’s words; but as one, the people understood that somehow the Foreman was at fault.  It was all his fault, whether it be the famine or the nightmares.  It didn’t matter anyway; all that mattered, was that it was the Foreman’s fault.  Yet while the crowd surged with murderous intent, no one stepped forward.

 

The Foreman looked towards the crowd as if he was expecting something; when nothing happened he looked back at the Mayor with a dissatisfied grunt.  Then, as if deciding that neither was worth his time he meandered back towards his hut, and resting up against its thatched walls, pulled out a clouded bottle and took a deep swig.  Sloshing it about in his mouth for a moment, he spit it out.  With a content sigh, the Foreman then shook a few drops from the bottle, finishing off the last bottle of liquor.  And as the Foreman casually rolled the bottle to the side, it was as though, finally, someone had taken a step.

 

With a roar, the townsfolk surged as one and seized the Foreman who, seeming as bemused as ever, offered up no resistance as he was dragged roughly into the fields by the screaming crowd.  Any normal man would have felt terror at such a mob surrounding him, but the Foreman acted as though it was normal, boring even--as though he had woke this morning to die.  Between the raging crowd and the apathetic indifference of the foreman, the Mayor stood stunned, convinced the world had gone mad.

 

In the field of wheat, a semblance of a trial was in order; a trial as far as there was the accuser, and there was the guilty.  The Foreman was lashed to the ground; since there had been nothing to tie him against, in a field such as this.  The Foreman lay there, looking up into the sky; almost oblivious of the restless crowd which had gathered on all sides.  The people’s confidence was waning, no one was sure what to do next; after all, theirs was a peaceful city, and blood was rarely shed.  Such an ordeal should be decided by trial, but none in the mob understood how to run a trial.

 

“How do you plead?” demanded the crowd, now a jury.

 

The Foreman continued looking into the sky; silent.  He had no intentions of humoring his captors.

 

The crowd murmured amongst themselves; how can a trial be held when the guilty won’t speak?  Eventually they came to a consensus; someone had to represent the Foreman.  So drawing straws, they elected who would be the Defendant; and lashed him down beside the Foreman.  Placing a blindfold over the man’s eyes, they continued with the trial; for justice is blind.

 

“How do you plead?” demanded the jury.

 

“On what charge?” asked the Defendant.

 

An outburst from the jury, as each was confused exactly what was being tried.  Some yelled, “Poisoning us all”, while others screamed, “Drinking the last of the liquor.”  In the end the jury wasn’t sure why they had the Foreman on trial in the first place, so with an air of solemnity they responded, “On all charges.”

 

The Defendant’s eyes went wide with horror, as though he had not expected such a harsh sentence, and he began screaming, “Guilty! I am Guilty! Oh Lord above I am Guilty!” until his screams became sobs.  And the Defendant lay there surrounded by the people, sobbing at his fate, while the Foreman continued to stare up at the sky.

 

The jury murmured amongst themselves, unsure of how a trial is supposed to end.  Did they sentence the Defendant now?  Voices were raised, and tensions flared, and again the mob was filled with an unnatural rage; in a bellowing voice the jury declared, “The Guilty has already sentenced himself guilty, the jury is hung.”  As the declaration rippled outward, the people cheered, for justice had been served.

 

Torches were lit, and distributed to every man, woman, and child.  Standing over the two guilty men, the mob as one tossed their torches upon the men.  The Foreman winced in pain as the flames began licking at his flesh, but to scream out would be to humor these thieves, so he kept his mouth pursed.  The Defendant on the other hand screamed as fiercely as possible, spewing forth every curse and blasphemy he could against the mob which surrounded him.  The Foreman’s silence broke as he noticed the flames had begun to spread through the harvest tribute; that which he was sworn to protect.  “Put the flames out!  The Tribute!” he screamed.  Yet the crowd did nothing but watch with morbid fascination as the flames grew around them; either they didn’t care, or perhaps they couldn’t hear him over the Defendant’s screams of vengeance.

 

With his last breath the Foreman yelled out “How dare you defy the Lord’s will!”  For it was no question, but rather an exclamation, an accusation.  As the flames kindled an inferno, the screams of the guilty could no longer be heard; so the crowd made its way out of the field, bloodlust aflame within their hearts.   Somehow a trial had not been as satisfying as they had hoped; which meant that justice had yet to be served.  Of one accord, the crowd cast their eyes up towards the Castle.  A stir rippled through the crowd, and they began to move in solidarity, as though through the Asphodel Meadows, toward the towering gate which they had so meekly followed their victim a mere week prior.  

 

The guards looked out over the bloodthirsty mob which approached, and drawing their weapons, held their ground.  Not a single word was spoken, no warnings were yelled, for such a thing was not needed; no longer relevant.  The bloodthirsty mob collided with the unyielding guards; as mayhem erupted.  The struggle at the gate lasted mere moments, claiming many lives from both sides.  For their part, the guards died as quietly as a man can be expected; a simple gasp of shock as one’s last breath rattles out of dying lungs.  Yet the townsfolk who fell, did anything but go quietly.  Almost enraged that they, amongst all the crowd, must die, they screamed until they were silenced beneath the feet of their fellow compatriots--crushed lungs cannot scream, no matter how great the rage.  As the crowd surged up the mountain, it left behind it the last rasps of its victims, all once comrades under their Lord, until the path itself was stained with the blood from the crushed dead, and the bare feet of the living.  By the time the crowd had reached the tower above, a mere handful remained, the rest either slain, or falling to their deaths from the narrow path.

 

These few men who reached the final gate were determined, with eyes only for the Castle.  The Lord within was guilty; of what, not a single man cared.  Storming up the keep, following the path which the Foreman had left, the men finally reached the Lord’s room with its eerie display of lights.  Cautiously they circled the table, firmly grasping their makeshift weapons in hand.  Those who lacked weapons, reached down to pick up cutlery which lay, covered in a layer of dust, upon the table.  Reaching the Lord’s throne the men froze, staring down at a pile of stained bones which had long since been forgotten.  The men stood there for many minutes, doing nothing, unsure of themselves; the object of their obsession had been but an illusion.  One by one, each man turned, and left the room, as if in a dream, until the pile of bones was alone as it had been for eons.

 

On the fringe of the city’s border, along the dark forest road, rode a man upon his creaking cart--an emptied flask beside him.  Within the cart, thousands of potatoes lay, all consumed with blight, useless in all but a single way.  The driver drove up beside his companion, and then slowly passed him.  He seemed to be lost in thought, and with a wave of a bleached hand, gestured for his companion to continue without him; he would catch up.  With a gaunt gaze the stranger looked out over the burning fields, which had now spread to the city itself, then he raised his gaze to the keep above.  With a perpetual grin, he carried a wistful harvester’s smile.  That satisfied smile one might have after a bountiful and attentively raised harvest which comes full circle.  With a final look at the moon, he turned and hurried to rejoin his companion.

 

In the tower above, the bones lay alone upon their throne. If seen from a distance, they may seem to many as a mournful testament to an unknown past.  But up close, one would notice an almost ironic smile upon the skull of the deceased as it gazed down on the burning city.  An ironic smile directed down upon his few remaining subjects as they stripped the succulent flesh from the screaming Mayor below; for the Mayor was a provider.  A good leader understands sacrifice, and the Lord above, if his pale skull alone, smiled down like a king who has seen the end of famine and the beginning of equality.

 

Whether rich or poor, equal in death.

 

Reviews

[Lyn Anderson]

This is a wonderful story, with subtleties and layers, and great ideas. A few things -- as mentioned in featured review, more show, less tell, and also, I tripped over so many starting of sentences with For But Or. It would clean up well without a lot of them. Finally, the writing sounds fairly formal, and hence, the use of contractions such as shouldn't might be better avoided. All good things, I know you appreciate a thorough review.

[C. Rose]

"in the end all men are cowards" hehehe ahem.
I like the comparison of the castle to wine.
Good job delving into a town suffering from famine.
I felt like you told me multiple times that the strangers were distant socially and the value of tradition, without ever showing me such things.

[Taylor_McCutcheon]

The glass cast odd refractions across the dusty room, -----should it be reflections?

That was literally the only thing I saw lol This was very good. You are an amazing writing.

[Nusquam Esse]

nah, refractions was the intended word, it carries a more 'distorted' nuance than reflections, the sort that you would expect with old and warped glass. Sorta like the difference between transparent and translucent. Glad you liked it.

[Taylor_McCutcheon]

oh ok. I get it :) and no problem :)

[AprilRN1210]

The greatest authors are those that have the ability to weave a tale in such a way that transports you, the reader, into a world that they created: into the thoughts, emotions, and struggles of the characters. It allows you passage into this realm of existence and causes you to feel what they are experiencing and anticipate what will happen next. This piece is extraordinary: from the rich details to the tone retained throughout. I felt the despair, the hopelessness, the struggle. It was haunting, entertaining, and deeply moving. I thoroughly enjoyed this and look forward to reading more of your work. Outstanding piece of literature.

[Woody]

breathtaking, Nusquam! a great story. you write with such ease and your characters are such a pleasure to watch as they evolve and the story unfolds.
I love the vocabulary you use and the way you tell a story.

[Kaya]

You write with such a great understanding of the message and theme you are writing with. Your plot and characters were intriguing and I felt that you chose your words with purpose. I couldn't fault your writing in any way; I thoroughly enjoyed reading this.

[Wez Hardyn]

Didn't think I was into your kind of allegorical yarns - seeing myself as an old fashioned straight forward story teller. But then when I reread my own story 'Jimmy Twelvetrees' I noticed many allegories - or perhaps more precisely political metaphors (what's the diff?). For instance my alien culture has become dependent on Earth's past to provide it with identity and entertainment - a clear allegory of Post Modernism and it's political and cultural impotence. So thanks for the insights. Was this a motive for your stories? To give other writers insight into their own work. Or is that just your style? Keep it up.

[Mister_Sir]

The end of this work reminds me of Nietzsche's Parable of the Madman. Again, the entire passage is absolutely beautiful. I personally like shorter fables, but hell, you're so great with long ones that my captivation never ceases. In fact, I'm favoriting this one, because there are a few paragraphs within that I find especially intoxicating. I honestly think that you have earned yourself a spot among the great writers of history. Two questions: For how long have you been writing? And how often do you write?

Neurotically yours,
Mister Splitbrain

[-]

Masterfully done! Your writing is incredibly captivating. I love how it feels light to read, but still manages to project all the feelings and impressions a reader could ever want and expect. At the very beggining the phrase "After all, there is no need for a name when you are alone, and none can remember how it all began" was already one of my favorite from the excerpt. I like the mood the story sets, easygoing at the start, getting heavy with conflict as the story progresses. Well done!

[CountNicholasAlti]

Well what is this, it seems you can write an interesting and intellectual story for both the casual and advanced reader! This is an amazing story. I absolutely love it, the situation and the messages. The blind conformity of the masses, the animal instinct to follow, the obsession with an irrelevant leader, the way we revert to our mongoloid senses in desperation although we shudder to think that we have the capability. And the character development is perfect and you didn't even go into much back story to draw attachment, I don't know how you managed to pull that off but it worked beautifully. You make it very difficult as a reviewer to try and critique your writing, as there is almost nothing to be done, but I'll give it a meager attempt.
In the third paragraph, there is a repetition of the word "death" that throws off the amazing vocabulary that is used around it.
I would have liked to see more emotion and confusion in the foreman when you first introduced him, it began as though he was not wholly interested, although you clarified later, but initially I didn't get the feeling that it was his ultimate devotion to watch over the crops.
And although it isn't essential to the story, I would have loved to see more elaboration on the battle between the guards and the civilians. It is just a quick pinch of action, and I feel it would complement the story to exaggerate and expand upon that; really bring the reader into the chaos and desperate fury that was going on.
Ah, that's all I can muster. What an amazing story. It seems your goal in writing is to make me jealous. Well done!