Anvil's whiskey glass sailed, unspilling, straight up. It turned over at the top and streaked down, raining redeye on Anvil's twitching form.

Don't forget that this Sunday we put the clocks back an hour.

We were presented to the village elder.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye / Who cheer when soldier lads march by, / Sneak home and pray you'll never know / The hell where youth and laughter go.