Stories From The Head

Greffatut’s Weakness There he was. A lonely rooster in the henyard. Pil was unaware of this sexist characterisation. He hadn't read the story you're reading now, so how could he possibly know that somewhere in the world someone was describing him as a rooster in the henyard. Not that he'd care, though. Pil was a real hard-ass, having grown up as the oldest son of Greffatut. Greffatut was a blacksmith, working as a baker in a town called Ahax, three miles north of Kikkesar. Pil could never accept that Greffatut suppressed his abilities as a blacksmith, to produce Muhar-cookies to the extremely yuper population of Ahax, three miles north of Kikkesar. But hell, those were real tasty Muhar-cookies. The combination of salt, yeast and Lejjad made for really good eatin’. This bothered Pil. So he just stood there, in the henyard, trying to impersonate a rooster as best he could. Greffatut watched from his lonely tower. He knew that his son, his only son, was a total failure. Leaning back, pondering this terrible fact, he smiled, pulled out his knife, and swallowed yet another Muhar-cookie. "This is the life", he said out loud. But no one could hear him, not even Pil...

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