The sundrolula, the picknobella. We were three cranes tall and four wide. Our backs creaked like 100-year-oak and our bellies bulged from the weight of the fight. West by night, north by day. Dust and yellow-eyed moths stole into inattentive mouths. But sublime was the sound of the lake, the crashing waves stomping with the boots and rocks. Crash, crash, stomp, stomp. The petrafarkle, the casmetator. Three cranes tall and four wide. West by night, north by might.
The gravity on this planet made me shit a lot. They said I would get used to it, but I never did. My back and feet were so jacked. The upside? I could pee like a race horse. Had to be careful sometimes. You try to blend in, but that smell of urine on your shoes is a dead giveaway. Marty said it was worse when you got back. Peeing took forever, he said. You just stood there hoping it would end. I just laughed everytime he brought it up. I didn’t tell him I wasn’t going back.
In the wizard’s pocket was a tattoo. She swiped it off the skin of a man while he was sleeping. She tried to love him, but that was gone. The tattoo was small and tacky, but he adored it. She had long forgotten the story. Some battle, some mead, and a stranger named George. Glory today, glory forever. Something like that. She would fiddle with it in her pocket. Twirl it around as she contemplated things more important than him. She told herself she would return it someday, but that was a lie. The tattoo was her story now.