NationStates Jolt Archive

Earth.

The cradle of human civilization. The sepulchre of freedom. The nest of justice. The elder budding partner of unity. The loci of peace. The, the list goes on. But Earth, blue green, so full of innocence, wonder and joy. Even as it span serenely round its warmly glowing star it played host to a most portentous shadow sliding over its pristine surface.

From the helm of his massive warship his Imperial Green Mightiness peered, slightly myopically, out at the unprepared jewel in the night sky. Pecking and tweaking certain highly sensitive, and no doubt artfully constructed controls, he began his plummet, nay descent, nay plummet is more accurate, to the surface.

As a corona of heat surrounded and buffeted his craft his Wondrous Jade Majesterialness pondered the upcoming slaughter. Such pondering always got him in the mood for actual slaughtering, and so stepping down from his command perch he waddled with astonishing grace and breathtaking agility, falling merely twice, to his collection of knives. Picking up the sharpest looking ones and stashing them about his person he managed to scramble, with regal dignity, back to his seat just in time to brace for impact.

The warship smashed into the ground sending up a spray of gorse bush and thin grass, carving a crater almost 50 foot long as it dragged to a halt. There it lay amongst the debris, ticking slightly as it cooled. A nearby sheep looked on in astonishment, probably it’s hard to tell with sheep, at the extra solar invader. A full five minutes past before his Verdant Greatness opened a hatch located on the side of the ship, through some fault entirely not his own the ship had not landed exactly perfectly and the door was pinned slightly to the ground, but with much heaving and panting he was able to squeeze from the portal.

And so for the first time he looked upon his future kingdom from the ground. Took a deep lungful of the cool crisp sea air, and set off to his future capital.

The Space Owl has arrived

Humanity Is Doomed

Seriously

Little Shingleton, a town founded in 1432 by a brief and never very profitable band of candle smugglers, had just one notable feature in this modern day and age. That feature was much touted by its mayor who’s inexplicable vestigial position saw him wielding an annual budget of literally tens of pounds, excluding the rather more impressive biscuit fund for the accountants break room. The feature mentioned earlier, an explanation of it is overdue but I ask you steel yourself against its stupendous nature. Many a lesser person might find themselves overcome by the mere concept. The source of Little Shingletons pride is that it is just a two hours walk, a bus ride, and another brisk perambulation to the town of Greater Bucksworthy. Cultural centre of the entire region Bucksworthy not only contains a cinema updated almost biannually, but also a blue plaque celebrating the three year tenancy of poet Walter Ramsmeyer who rather fell out of favour in the poetry world when it was discovered he had plagiarized his greatest works from the back of a cereal packet. Ramsmeyer had said he was moving to Bucksworthy to ‘experience the unmatched hell of living in isolated coastal Cornwall.’ But this fact was often neglected when being mentioned to the few visitors who were sometimes forced to stop off there on their way to real civilization.

Shingleton itself was ramshackle and teetering, balanced as it was largely on the side of a cliff. One of its most precariously placed houses leaned at an almost thirty degree angle was home to five people, three dogs, one hamster, several rats, and one and a half goldfish. Cramped living conditions were not helped by the ‘rustic charm’ of the place which let in much of the ‘bracing sea breeze’ guides to more popular coastal destinations often talk about.

On this particular early morning the youngest occupant on this house sixteen year old Chastity Cantguethen, she did not revel in the name, was fitfully asleep in an iron spring bed that felt like it had a life of its own and made the noises to prove it. She was midway through a dream in which a giant mackerel was chasing her with a 10th century sheep herders curdling fork when a loud tapping at her sea side window startled her awake.

She looked around blearily cursing the house, it must have been the central heating installed, so her mother said, by her great grandfather. But she could swear some nights it gave off ten times more mysterious clanks and rumblings than it did heat. She was just snuggling back under the sheets when the tap sounded again followed by an audible ruffling of feathers. Turning to the window she stared in shock at what she saw. A large green owl was perched vicariously on her windowsill. Not taking her eyes of the creature she climbed cat like toward it, trying to make as little noise and sudden movement as possible. Just as she reached the edge of the bed, the curious bird cocked its head slightly, making her freeze in an odd position, when it spoke she fell off entirely.