A Story by a Nok Ja

[Jean Valjean]

This masterpiece was constructed by the Nok Ja poet Vuu ʄOkʘ͡qu and is estimated to have been written sometime within the fifteenth century, Earth Time. It has since been translated into English by J.W. Grabbs and I Atha. What you see here is the Grabbs version, who opted to roughly translate the language so that it would mach more contemporary terms so that it would be more understandable to contemporary human audiences. There is some controversy over the use of his translation in school books, and many educators have called for the I Atha translation instead for his understanding of deep cultural context. However, most Nok Ja words are almost impossible to translate, as there are almost no words within their language that share any direct meanings with counterparts in the English language. To use I Atha's translation would require a paragraph to define each word and what it means from the viewpoint of a Nok Ja. For reading convenience, most anthologies - this one included - use Grabbs' translation because of its simple and easy rhythm and flow. Readers with a deeper interest in Nok Ja literature are advised to read these manuscripts in their original language. This approach is not only more direct, but those who have mastered the Nok Ja language comment that the flow of the original story is more evident. Kitilik historian Dirkit Klees has compiled a library of ancient Nok Ja literature and has established the theory that, up until two hundred years ago, the most important element of communication in Nok Ja literature was the flow of the writing. Since this is impossible in a direct English translation, Grabbs has constructed a version that balances the best of both worlds, finding close equivalent words within the English language while also fitting the translation into the rhythmic structure of the source. General meaning is preserved, and the only sacrifice made on the behalf of Grabbs were the semantics. With this translation, it is now possible to see the beauty and eloquence of the Nok Ja mindset, and it gives a strong example of the richness of their culture. There is a lot to learn from this gem of a manuscript, considered to be the pinnacle and quintessential example of literature from that era.

 

The Story of How Sentient Pajamas Conquered the World by Utilizing Weapons of Mass Destruction, Propaganda and Understanding of Proper Timing Within a War Campaign (or: The Edge of Despair)

 

     They thought through this, and I wondered about the tone of the story, and a monkey in a Satan suit came out from the dark night air to offer me hairy clouds. After all, who doesn't deserve a drink of lemonaid once and a while? The cool-aid man would be jealous, if it wasn't for the raven picking eyes from the ice. There's no point to it anymore, since trees can wallop the living daylights out of cars and cats get drunk every now and then after work when they aren't prowling around nineteenth century steamboats.

     Even though the cart wheel was under attack - attack, I say - and the old fellow wandering through the tunnels with bristles made of hats, there was no number eleven. It was preserved for the bottles of justice, and the meager wages were not heard. Every mouth announced that a kingdom would be founded upon additional taxes, but then the hearts of musical instruments commented the operator. There was no life, no death, no candy in the lands of the stone cube, for the building had paint on it, saying "My will to the prosecutors, and forever shall the old hag reign!"

     Nowhere was there heard a thunder for the sake of the color pink. The diamond was cut out of ivory, and mittens warmed the early morning. Stars shed their tears for fishing docks, but it was good. In fact, is was all good, up to the point where the oxylotl pit the trengles against the asteroids. Who did not see the now in the later, and who did not see the ego overcome the grass seed? For even great insects bow before the toy box, and the widows of early morning rainbows understand the tone of bricks. It is self-evident that no one can stop a feather, and anyone who can is clearly a purple. Arrows flew, smithed out of brazen earwax, to the far corners of the alphabet. Eager men brought their electric nostrils, and the early bird shouted "Hallelujah!" The doubters combined with combines to create combustion [note from the editor: this alliteration is purely coincidental]. Canticle crystal cleanness mucked up the room, frustrating the elements. There was a spirit of haphazard, for the raw mouth couldn't stand the broccoli [the original text refers to "Ouaiuouu", a vegetable bearing a strong resemblance to broccoli]. Everywhere there was much rejoicing, much rejoicing, much despair.

     Yes, for it was indeed those times. No one knew what the other had to say if the other had anything to do about it. If there was a broken egg at all, it was most likely to the left. No one could see right, for a fish was in their right eye. Ferns contained myriads of chromosomes, and the socialites abused it. Indeed, yes indeedly indeed, there were chromosomes everywhere, indeed. They were contrary to the proper way, and they were blue instead of only mostly blue. What could a wise munching stick ever say to that? It was to the benefit of the thirty-fifth hexideciman encounter that time and the passage thereof, explicitly if not implicitly, was a belly button, impeccably so, sewn to the very ether rooted in contrast to the ontological inertia of my glowing chainsaws for abs.

     When at last we laid down in peace, at my window was a door. The generation of winter couldn't wait, and was sending me messages through the door. Somewhere back there, where I can specify later, the danger lurked not, for instead it was there. Perhaps the alignment of the numerals couldn't contradict, but I made a bet that they could. Things did not turn out as planned, but since when did disease ever lock on to a catapult? It always has been as expected, even if the unwilling princess was in a "would of, could have, should have" general sense of personal doubt. That is silly, but then it is obvious. It was foreseen a million times, and then a million milllion, and then a million million million, and then a million million million quisquillian, for so were its trashy clean ways.

     Listen. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I know what bubbles talk about when they eat. When the waters drink the border - O the waters! - there shall be no more sports. The head wear shall perish from the bad, and be brought to the other end where it is otherwise convenient. If the paper is held hostage, then let it be. Think of it the other way around, and it is not such a bad thing. I would suppose it any other way if I was one of them, or if I did not have my head with me at the moment. My teeth are composed of fire, and the flirtatious apple digs my groove.

     The naked clock fortold an idea when the moon wouldn't interrupt the opera. If that could happen, then why not every day? It would seem a convenience to be at the front of the great frontier, and if there was, by some bizarre change, unspoken, unexalted, forever and ever a barrier that could bring us together in the name of honey, then surely it would be of a great marketing ploy for scavengers on their way to the great city of fuzzy things.

     Alas, when I unite with myself in uncommon enterprise to verge into protoplasmic depths of sanity to face the zany warts of war, I forget the meaning thereof, and search endlessly for a beginning without the vines of the enclave, wherein no future soul shall reside except in cases of technical malfunctions unbeknownst to current observations as practiced in my present schedule, but neither could the underground tintinabulation sparkle an interest in fanged diplomacy when a straw would have done better, under the implications of the circumstances, wherein there was no doubt that we were coming out of it within a certain reasonable time frame that could have been translated into an encryption readable by lizards lizarding about, a thought which I am very found of and, under the ceremonious circumstances, given the long name of "The Vacuum of Tied Box Shavings Mingling With Turning Doubts Unchecked by the Department of the Holding Tongues of the - " (never mind the rest, for am sure that you re not interested in my full name), pleased with the roundabout manner of the characters within, even after I realized that I didn't not not give a care about punctuality.

     However, let's face it: the primal element of convoluted masochism is the tempest of pure ice. if that cannot be conquered, this I suppose the waters could allow for rich selling to pour out through, or they could - one supposes - forget that it ever happened. That would be a form of freedom, a euthanasia that could last the test of ages. I wanted a far-fetched chain in my way, not only to deliver consonants ad vowels but also to deliberate whether or not socks were worth it. Popularity is not the only thing that is important. Saints and dysfunctional berries couldn't do any better than the hydrogen atoms at fifty degrees. Sharp pencil, sharper pencil, but which would you prefer? I was going to make up my mind, but then the cosmic beard came and I saw new meaning in everything. All hail the cosmic beard! Within its nebulae, I protect a bug from harm. I cast spells of radiance and loving and radioactive isotopes in case of a spleen. Fingers poked through the jelly, and the pounce couldn't wait, or else all would come to a hault.

     Many people have wondered on the virtues of cheese. It has properties of mysterious silence, and the contemporaries in particle physics cannot but heads over what historians teach in monuments of ecstasy. You would cry too if it happened to you. Forgive me, for I am a member of a secret society of fat fried toes. I would not recommend it, nor would choose the now it the other time comes. If a third option is presented, it will be muffins.

     Prepare for the very quintessence of grossness. I cannot emphasize that enough. Long ago, wen I ponder my childhood with imagination and fondness, yet stink away from thee, I consider the farm animals that used to eat me, and my first death and its sequel. It is possible to physically sneeze until the sun goes down, but the hills pay no attention. They do not dare, for the sculptor is looking at them. With his hammer, he presses forth until vanity is constructed. The walls of the city come down with fire, but not until the balls of wood-pecking death come to take the mind away. Why the whiskers could not do that, I do not know. However, I am lying. Feet kick as the stones, and the mountains levitate because of air vibrations. The conjugate transmits. Speed talks to me, and when the deadly disaster comes, it throws its weight at it. It's a game, all of it, and we are caught up in it all. We all see it, and especially myself because of my phalanges. A truck hit the peak when it could not go anymore, and lava looks fluffy. Flight came, and it went away, but the cracks stayed there forever. The smoke rose and the object fell through the troposphere, and it landed in the yard where the children played so as to bring them much joy. If I had a face, I would have felt my mouth smiling. The whale figured out the meaning of the busy marketplace, and I was awarded three times with gold for this revelation.

     Jactitation is all too common, so above all I would praise the virtue of emunction. It is the cure to iatromisia, and the answer to all issues of ichor produced by myself. If an ichnogram was left behind, I would read it. I have seen the idioblast, and it is evolving! I divided it into a quadragintesimal skin, and sold it to the xenoepist, until he utilizes his accismus. I pick up the orts, and start again.

     Pickup truck!

     Pickup truck!

     Pickup truck!

     For yet the group hug will never leave me. I shall use my coupons until the end of my days.

 

[continued on page 371]

Edited April 4, 2013 by Jean Valjean