Ah the first post.

The first post. The digital ink sits fresh on the E-paper, as it were. So im going to put up a short story I wrote about Saskatchewan. Before I do that, I encourage any comments people want to leave! I have no real opinions besides my own, and my girlfriend's, which is probably the best one, but others never hurt. But back to the story: Saskatchewan, for all you curious non-Canadian creatures, is an enigmatic landmass between Alberta and Manitoba. Many have tried to chart and map it's treacherous Prairies, which are haunted by farmers, the odd bison, and grass. But it's ravenous grass. Enjoy.

Saskatchewan: A true story. Possibly. Almost, anyways.


The buffalo craned it's neck towards the oncoming shape. "What do you think it is?" It said, to it's companion, which chewed it's lump of grass contemplatively, eyes squinted as it too, watched the shape in the distance.

"I dunno." It said after a moment. "If it's another bloody Cree warrior who thinks he can trick us into running off a cliff, he'd better have his premiums paid." It added, with a snort.

"Well, you can't blame them, you know. We keep falling for it." Said the first, thoughtfully. "I mean, it's like: "Oh hell, here comes an Indian with a spear, we better head for the rockies!" And it keeps working. S' like... you know, the arctic rodents."

There was silence. "Marmets?" Said the second buffalo, taking another bite of grass.

"No no, whassemcalled, Lemmings. The little buggers that run off cliffs."

"Oh."

"Yeah. They do it every year to keep their numbers down... or as a mating ritual... something like that." He saw his friend losing intrest quickly."Anyways," He added quickly, "The thing is, it happens, natural like. And maybe that's our lot too, y'know?"

Buffalo two quietly continued to eat for another moment. Then spoke.

"That has got to be the biggest load of shit i've ever heard. I mean, it's our divine right, to be run off cliffs by some pillock with a stick so they can make bowls and coats out of us." Buffalo one absorbed this.

"When you put it that way, it sounds pretty rediculous." He said, quietly.

"Of course it bloody does. Now eat your grass."

The shape in the distance, was, in fact, a man, but it was far from a Cree. The man wore strange threads, and a large hat. His skin was far paler than any indian either of the buffalo had ever seen. He stopped in front of them, his horse drawing to a quickened halt with a whinny.

"May I dare ask what you fine beasts are?" He said to the two buffalo, who exchanged a sarcastic glance to each other. This was the first possible opportunity for entertainment in days, and the two buffalo pounced on it like a mountain lion on something a mountian lion ate.

"We? Why, we're moose sir." Said the second, simply. The horse scowled, and looked up at it's master.

"No you're bloody not." It said. The man looked perplexed.

"Why, horse I daresay you need to be a little less critical... I mean, these fine beasts surely don't look like moose... but..." Said the man, trailing off into uncertainty.

The first buffalo spoke again. "Course we are. It's buffalo that have those bloody huge racks of horns. Can't abide them, personally. Mean tempers, never want to share the creeks. And one owes me ten quid." There was an awkward silence amongst the motley gathering.
"Are you quite sure?" Said the man again.

"No they're damn well not," said the horse. "They're having a lark on you boss. But don't take my word for it."

"Honestly, the rude horses you lot show up with... at least with native horses you have a decent conversation. Before you have twenty arrows in your arse, of course." He added, as an afterthought. The second buffalo snorted and tried to look aloof. It only succeeded, unfortunately, in looking like a buffalo. However, the man on the horse, seemed to take no notice of that.

"I was told by the preacher to head west, and begin a town where I met the first animals," He said proudly. "And you moose, have been the first. I am to name the town after the largest part of the animal." There was another silence.

"Well then mate, you should have a look between our leg-- ouch!" The first one began, and finished abruptly, in the manner that one does when a horse has stomped on it's hoof.

"I think, these Moose," the horse said frowning, and emphasizing the last one, "have plenty big mouths, if anything." It snorted loudly.

"Listen here bucko, put your money where your feedbag is-" Began the second buffalo, but was cut off by a cry of joy from the man.

"Spendid! Moose... mouth? no, no... tooth, orfice... Moose Jaw..? Yes! That's it!" He shouted, making the animals wince. He pulled a small british flag from his pack, and thrust it into the earth.

"Hey, that's our earth you bastard!" Said the first buffalo, glaring at the flag. But the man and his horse were already dissapearing out of view.

"Well then." Said the second. There was an air of satisfaction about the two buffalo. Neither spoke for several minutes.

"We fooled him but good, didn't we?"

"Yeah, we did. At least he didn't try to run us off a damn cliff."

"Yeah." They ate some more grass, and watched the clouds drift across the yellow plains, and the sun set into the eastern horizon, where the rockies were just visible through twilight mists. And that was the end of another day, in Saskatchewan.

Disclaimer: Im sure Moose Jaw was not actually named in this fashion. If you're somehow offended, that's unfortunate, but I figure this way was far more interesting.