Once Crossed

(c) The Storyteller’s Abode

We are not the sort to make trouble. We like our quiet, we believe breaking the law must have consequences.

Our hand’s been forced.

Hardship is nothing new to us, and we would have adjusted to the earthquakes in time. However, there’s a line, which, once it’s been crossed, can never be uncrossed. Our wells – we’re nothing without them. We take pride in working to support ourselves but with the wells contaminated, we’re facing withering crops and dying livestock.

All we have is axes, pitch forks, tools. What we lack in equipment, we make up in fury.

Tonight, we strike.


Doesn’t make sense? You’re right. But it’s been one of those days when nothing I write makes sense, so there you go.