"Trashling Tales" drabbles by Donald
Lord of the Bugs
Trashling Tales #8
Nobody talks about us much. The troubadours sing about MouseHerders, but MouseHerders buy their ale. The Children preach the virtues of the Farmers' life, but Farmers make up most of their flock.
We purvey protein to the most desperate. Grubs, worms, beetles, flies. Did you know the flavor of cockroach steaks depends on the beast's fodder?
Trashlings of every tribe have eaten in my shop. Penurious Tinkers, traveling Coggers, absentminded Scribes and mendicant Children of the Makers. Farmers returning from a poor night at the market, and yes, even MouseHerders.
ThoseWhoBurn eat here often. They say turnabout is only fair.
Paroxetine, Eater of the Orange Lotus
Trashling Tales #7
Deep in the lairs, they told stories of gifts of the gods to make one immortal and wise.
Paroxetine didn't want the Orange Lotus at first. He trained himself to sleep at night, to endure the light of day. He dared to walk under the gaze of the sun.
He wanted to see a Maker.
After that day, he sought out the Eaters in their lairs. He dared to open the orange flowers and partake of the fruit within. Pale imitations of ambrosia and soma.
None of his companions ever asked him whether he ate to remember or to forget.
53211 the Cogger
Trashling Tales #6
He levered the back panel off the artifact on his workbench and peered at its inner workings.
"A Chipper would see what I'm doing as sacrilege. An effort to pry into secrets the Makers never meant us to know."
He withdrew several gears and wrote down their sizes and number of teeth.
"But why would They give us all these things, unless They wanted us to use them?"
He polished the gears and fastened them onto his latest invention. He wound the mainspring.
"We do the Makers' work when we create."
His creation smiled and nodded her head in agreement.
Tu-va-illa
Trashling Tales #5
She is ancient, even for a Trashling. She saw the Great Avalanche. She witnessed the crusades of the Makers' Children against ThoseWhoBurnForever. Some whisper she is older than Fill itself.
They come bearing bones from mice and birds and strange beasts only the Makers know. They bring their hopes and fears, their hates and loves.
"Return on suchandsuch day."
She sings as she shapes the bones into charms. Every customer is satisfied, though perhaps not in the way they expect.
No one knows why she keeps certain bones for herself. No one knows the language of the songs she sings.
Ariela the Cloud-Dancer
Trashling Tales #4
She stands atop Mount Washdry and gazes at the shrouded moon. Dark bands trap its silver light.
She undoes her hair and sways skyclad to the song that sounds within her soul. Wrists and ankles move, knees and elbows. She closes her eyes as the dance overtakes her completely.
Limbs whirl. Wordlessly, she keens her song. Slow, fast, loud, soft. Her dance flows gracefully and without effort as the wind.
When she is finished, she opens her eyes. The moon shines pure blessings on all Fill.
Does she know whether or not her dance moves the clouds? Does she care?
Quicknib the Scribe
Trashling Tales #3
When I was young, a distant glimpse of the Makers set me on my path.
To find the Scribes is sufficient call to our way of life. I spent years as an apprentice PaperReclaimer, slowly working my way up to InkConfector, then Pensmith. Invested at last in my sacred robes as Scribe, I labored a month on my first composition.
Master Truehand led me to the very top of Mount Cheforiac and took my work from me. I wept as he let the paper go.
We cast our tales to the winds, O Makers, hoping that you will notice us.
Giatolo the Sell-Sword
Trashling Tales #2
Cardboard crunched. Giatolo drew his twin blades and kissed bone charms made by TuVaIlla herself.
Green eyes glowed in the shadows: the beast killing the MouseHerders' flock. A grey tomcat launched itself at Giatolo. Teeth snapped so close that he felt its hot breath. His blades flashed. The cat snarled and batted him to the dust.
The grinning beast grabbed him by his mouseskin vest and tossed him into the air. The sellsword laughed, somersaulting and landing on the cat's back.
His blades sang until the tomcat ran off howling. Giatolo chuckled and gathered severed whiskers to restring his lute.
Kranok the Searcher
Trashling Tales #1
The pathways of the Land of Fill shift from night to night, month to month, year to year. Only the Makers know why.
Kranok stands at a crossroad. He raises his Searcher's staff to divine his next step.
If he goes left, he will reach the habitations of artists and artisans, Tinkers and Coggers. If he goes right, the fields of Farmers and pens of MouseHerders. Straight ahead lie the camps of the Makers' Children, next to the furnaces of ThoseWhoBurn.
He opens closed eyes and sets off over the refuse itself. He walks somewhere he has never been before.
How It Began
Trashling Tales #0
My wife and I recently brought a couch to the local landfill. As we lowered it off the truck, a scrap of paper blew into my face. I cursed, snatched it off, and shoved it into my pocket.
I forgot about it until I reached for my keys to drive home. The paper bore words in a blackbrown ink. I didn't understand the story at first. Not until we found more scraps of paper.
Together, they speak of a race of creatures living in the landfill. I don't know whether or not the tales are true.
They call themselves Trashlings...
