Making a Short Day of It

by **Saul Sticks** on May 19th, 2015, 3:54 pm

Making A Short Day of It

14th of Spring, 515 AV

The sun glittered off the Suvan Sea while it still lay low in the sky. Saul trod up the gangway on to the ship he and a couple dozen other men were helping unload. The gentle rock of the waves made the arthritic wood of the dock and the ship groan in protest. Wheeling far overhead and scrounging the grounds of the dockyard for scraps, gulls whined their nonmusical noises in a subtle cacophony. Ever westward-bound and bringing with it the fresh scent of the brine, the Bonesnapper bit through Saul’s shirt. Even in the spring, that wind was as cold as Avanthal itself. It wasn’t the most pleasant of mornings to be working, but money was always a good thing to have. So Saul worked.

When he got on deck, he went over to an untouched collection of goods that was to be moved off the ship to some wagons on the dock. Earlier he had noticed several of the others pick up some of the barrels only to set them back down to go finish a different collection. Reaching down, Saul tested the barrels to see how heavy they were. Something inside sloshed, and he was unable to move them by simply sliding them. They were heavy.

Saul shook his head. No wonder this latest generation had gone to shit. They didn’t have any backbone. Everyone was lazy and expected the world to be handed to them on a silver platter. Not that his generation was any better. Saul was not so naïve to think that. The world was full of people unwilling to do the work required to live the kind of lives they wanted, but Saul wasn’t about to let them know that. Let them suffer. Let them learn their own lessons. The only ones he had to be concerned about were himself, his siblings, and Brat, his niece who was now in his care.

Speaking of, where was she?

His shallow, light brown eyes swept the docks for her, but his search proved fruitless. There were too many people working and shopping and selling on the docks, even as early as it was, and a child would easily go unnoticed in the organized chaos. He took a second look around, convinced he would find her as she was never far away. Ever since she had come to live with him a couple of years ago, Brat had followed him to work every day. When his third search still came up empty, he took a quick glance around the ship and finally spotted her climbing up in the rigging and chatting with a sailor while the man went about his work.

He shouted up at her to be heard above the gusts of wind. “Hey, Brat, stop disturbing people. They have work to do.”

Hooking her legs through the rigging, Brat let go of her grip and fell over backwards where she hung upside down and waved at Saul. The Bonesnapper blew her hanging, blond hair across her face. “I ain’t in the way, Uncle Saul.”

She pulled herself back up, turned, and said something to the sailor who turned back and waved at Saul. “Don’t worry about her, Saul. She’s welcome to be a nuisance any time she likes.”

Damn him for being so accommodating to her. And damn her. There didn’t seem to be anyone who didn’t like her.

“Alright,” Saul called up to her. “Just be careful.”

“Don’t you worry about her,” the sailor called down. “She’s gotta be part Svefran. There are few children that I’ve seen who are as comfortable on a ship as she is. She’ll be just fine.”

Saul wanted to tell the sailor to go eat shit but knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere. He would worry about Brat as much as he felt was necessary. Instead of being belligerent, he smiled, waved, and went back to his work. Tipping one of the barrels at an angle, he found a better grip on the bottom where a lip was formed. When both of his hands had found a firm grasp on the smooth wood, he kept his back straight and, contracting his legs powerfully, stood to his full height.

Always lift with your legs.

That was the first thing all the old workers at the dock had taught him when he had begun to work there when he was twelve. It was the first of many lessons he learned from them in the two decades he had been employed at the docks.

Twenty years. Shit.

He had been doing this way too long. And he’d be doing it a lot longer, especially with Brat to look after and his siblings coming to him for money as often as they did. Though family was one reason he didn’t mind having to work, Saul wished his brothers and sisters would become a little more self-sustaining than they were at the moment. Another reason he liked work at the docks was that a small part of him liked the idea that he was supporting one of the major reasons this city did so well, but it was a very small part. Loyalty to a city or nation or people was a ridiculous notion as far as he was concerned. Saul looked after himself and his own, something this city had never bothered to do for him. Yes. He owed it nothing as it had done nothing for him.

Making his way over to the gangway slowly as the barrel kept bumping against his thighs and only allowed him to take the shortest of strides, he took his cargo down to the more stable footing of the dock and glanced around for where the barrel belonged. Farther down the docks was a man sitting on the seat of cart drawn by a single broad-framed draft horse whose lineage Saul couldn’t quite pin down. The horse looked like a colorsplash but seemed larger than any Saul had ever seen. When the man saw Saul standing there with the barrel, he waved him over. Painstakingly, Saul made his way through the crowds of people milling around on the docks and finally set the barrel on the back of the cart.

by **Saul Sticks** on June 9th, 2015, 1:46 pm

Saul wiped away the sweat that had gathered on his brow. The simple trek across the docks had been made much more difficult by his heavy burden. He flashed the man on the driver’s seat of the cart a smile he didn’t mean and hoped the man didn’t see through the façade. Still, Saul was a good pretender, at least with the little things, and the man, taking the gesture as genuine, returned the smile.

Saul made small talk. “These barrels are heavy.”

“They look like it. I saw you bringing that un over, and it didn’t look easy. I’d give you a hand, but I rolled my ankle just yesterday.” He pointed down to the leg he had propped up in front of him.

Saul was pretty sure the man was full of shit. When Saul had first arrived, he was certain he had seen the man walking about the docks and rough housing with a few of his comrades. This man was just another example of someone taking every opportunity to do as little work as possible. Saying anything wouldn’t get him anywhere though, so Saul bit his tongue and shook his head sympathetically. “Rough luck, friend.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there are plenty more of these to be brought down. What’s in ‘em?”

“Ale. Imported from who knows where, but people like it, and it sells, so they keep providing it.”

Saul nodded and jogged back to the ship, twisting his shoulders to thread his way through the constantly shifting crowd. He wished he was wherever the barrels were headed to. A mug of beer sounded a hell of a lot better than heavy labor, but heavy labor made him strong. That was one thing Saul definitely would not complain about. Even before he had begun to work out regularly, his work here had kept him fit. When he walked back on to the ship, he saw several other dock workers sitting around and taking a break as if they had been working hard. He had seen the pace of their work and knew they hadn’t been but decided it would be best to do nothing.

He made his way back to the barrels, tipped one on its side, and rolled it over to the gangway. If he could work smart, he didn’t have to work nearly as hard, and he could still get his work done just as well. Placing himself downhill from the barrel, he allowed gravity to roll the barrel down to the docks while all he had to do was control its speed. Once there, he found a grip on either end, hefted it up to his waist, and made his way through the people to the cart once again. At least people were considerate enough to move aside when they saw him coming through.

He set the barrel down and returned for another, stretching his shoulders as he made his way back to the ship. Halfway through the morning and several dozen barrels in, he heard someone snickering at his back.

“Take it easy, old man. Don’t want to break your back.”

Old? He was hardly old, but Saul let the comment slide. Work was no place to be getting into fights. Flexing his shoulders powerfully, he hefted the barrel up higher than he had the others, just to prove to everyone else, and himself as well, that he could do it. The man who had spoken was probably in his early-twenties and in the middle of his prime, but Saul, who had a good decade on him, was just beginning his prime and was in better shape than his harasser would ever be. Let the man talk. Saul didn’t care. The extra effort it took to hold the barrel up that high all the way to the wagon and the jog back to the boat had Saul breathing hard as he walked back up the gangway.

The man snickered at Saul’s heavy breathing, and his friends laughed at his next comment. “Take it easy, old man. We don’t want your lungs to give out on you.”

The little shit was just looking for a fight, but Saul wasn’t about to give it to him. He would, however, bandy words without a second thought. “It’s easy to breathe and talk when you haven’t done any work all day.”

The laughter stopped, and Saul could see the man’s brain working hard to come up with a clever response. Nothing came, but that didn’t surprise Saul. The man probably had as much brains as he had work ethic. Saul shook his head and went back to his work. He didn’t have time for this.

Tipping another barrel, he bent at the knees and raised it to his waist. There were less than ten left. When he was finished, he could join the others in whatever light work they had found.

by **Saul Sticks** on January 30th, 2016, 7:08 pm

Saul only had two barrels left, but the effort from the others was taking its toll. The muscles in his arms, his back, and his shoulders were already beginning to tighten up, and his grip on the barrel would only hold so long before he had to put it down. Only halfway to the wagon, he had set the barrel down five times and was breathing hard. Standing the barrel upright, Sail stood up and stretched his arms as high above him as he could, feeling some of the tension begin to subside from the weariest of his muscles. Bending down, he gripped the far edge of the barrel and leaned back, letting the weight of his own body stretch the muscles of his limbs. He swung back and forth, letting each limb stretch more on one side before moving back to the other. Satisfied that his muscles were as loose and relaxed as they could get, he stood and twisted his arms around him in wide circles. The crowd parted a bit, not wanting to get clubbed by his hands. This practice was another one of the old dock workers advice to him.

Take breaks. A worker with cramps isn’t worth a thing.

He hadn’t listened at the start. He was young and headstrong. Stubborn and foolish as most boys his age tended to be, he had thought the older men’s breaks were due to laziness, but he learned quickly. The first day of work taught him they were right. After that first day, he had thought he could never be sorer. The second day had proved that notion wrong, but Saul had been determined and had continued to return each day for more punishment. Eventually, his body grew stronger and, even better, grew used to the feeling of sore muscles until he no longer noticed the ever present dull ache.

Convinced he was ready to go again, Saul tipped the barrel, found the lip with his hand, and lifted it to his waist. His sore muscles grew sorer, and Saul tried to shift the weight of the barrel to different parts of his body. First, he tried pulling it up and closer to his body. Then, he tried to get under the barrel more to shift its weight even higher. That was a mistake. He was forced to set the barrel down to reset his failing grip. Resigning himself to the fact that there was no better way, Saul lifted the barrel back up to his waist and carried it to the wagon with no further delays.

“They look like they’re getting heavier,” the wagon driver commented.

“Ya. That’ll happen when you’re the only one doing the heavy lifting.”

The man nodded. “You wouldn’t happen to be available to help me unload this, would you?”

Saul shook his head. “No. I’ve got to finish unloading this ship, and once it’s unloaded, we’ve got to load it back up again, so it can set sail before the light runs out.”

“I understand. I’ll find someone from the tavern to help out. Don’t worry.”

Saul hadn’t planned on it. It was this man’s job to deliver goods. How and if he got it done were none of Saul’s concern.

Saul walked back to the ship this time, allowing extra time for his muscles to recover strength for the last barrel, assuming it was still there. He knew it would be. Sure enough the barrel was waiting alone by itself while a group of dockworkers sat taking a break from whatever it was they had been doing.

Meandering over, Saul made it to the final barrel, tipped it, and lifted it. He turned and headed for the gangway. The worker who had been giving him a hard time earlier passed by Saul, and as he did, Saul felt something catch his foot mid stride. He might have stopped himself from being tripped under normal circumstances, but with the weight of the barrel carrying his momentum forward, there was no stopping the fall. Inelegantly, Saul came down on top of the barrel, its ungiving surface driving the breath out of him. With his grip on the barrel lost, Saul tumbled over it and ended in a sprawled heap on the deck.

The dockworker laughed at him. “I told you to be careful, old man. I knew you’d hurt yourself.”

Anger gave Saul his breath back, but he knew better than to start a fight. Standing slowly, he dusted himself off. “It’s you who should be careful. Whatever’s in that barrel is worth more than your existence.”

Saul turned toward the man only to find the man standing nearly toe-to-toe with him. He was angry and ready for a fight.

“As if anyone ever considered your life all that valuable, Saul. You’re just one more mistake in a long line of petch ups. I heard your father was drunk who mouthed off to the wrong people and got his throat slit and the rest of your family is either whores or worthless.”

“Careful.” Saul didn’t like people discussing his family, not like this.

“What? You gonna hit me?”

Saul shook his head. He knew better than to take the bait. “Boy, losing the skin on my knuckles isn’t worth the lesson it would teach you.”

That did the trick. The man’s hand drew back to deliver a blow.

Always take the first blow, and always make sure you take it in the face.

It was a lesson Saul had taught himself through observation. By taking the first blow, one could honestly say they didn’t start the fight. Having a buggered up face added some proof to that claim. Once one took the first blow, they generally had time to orient themselves before another attack came. For some reason, people liked to step back and see what damage their first punch did. Besides, if there was one thing Saul’s abusive petch up of a father had taught him, it was how to take a blow. The human face could take a lot more punishment than most people cared to think.

The man’s hand flashed forward faster than Saul was expecting, but he was still ready for it with his jaw closed. As the hand collided with his cheek, he turned with the blow, lessening its force. Stumbling back, he was about to find his footing when a second blow struck the other side of his face, stunning him momentarily. Somewhere past the sharp pain in his cheek and jaw, Saul realized this man wasn’t like most. This man was smart and was going to end the fight before his opponent even joined.

His hands flew up, or rather, they would have had they not been exhausted from his morning of heavy work. Three more blows landed against his skull before his hands rose up enough to half fend off the punches. As the pummeling continued, Saul managed to get his fists to either side of his face with his elbows dropped to protect his gut and diaphragm. The head could take some punishment, but if one took away his opponent’s ability to breathe, he took away his opponent’s will to fight.

by **Saul Sticks** on January 30th, 2016, 10:17 pm

Finally, Saul found his footing and managed to stand his ground. Still, the punishment his already tired muscles were taking was unkind on his body. He needed to gain the upper hand in this fight, and he needed to do it quickly.

Desperation gave a blank sort of strength. It had no color to it, no life, but it had its place. When needed, it was the only kind of strength that would do. Saul dropped his guard and pulled his arm back as far as he could. Lunging forward, he threw a desperate punch at his opponent’s face. His opponent did not expect the forward movement, and his blow was stifled by Saul’s shoulder. A moment later, Saul’s blow connected, and the force of the shock traveled through his knuckles and up to his shoulders.

This was one thing Saul never understood. No matter how hard he hit someone it never felt like he hit them hard enough. It was advantageous in a way. It always made him hit harder the next time. This time was no different, but the effect of his blow proved the feeling wrong. The man staggered away, stunned.

Saul took the opportunity to get himself even more stable footing and to catch his breath. It was only with this brief pause that Saul noticed the taste of blood in his mouth. He must have cut his cheek on his teeth. His opponent shook his head and did the same. There was a look in his opponent’s eyes. Surprise. Or fear. It didn’t matter which. With that one blow, Saul had put the fight back on even ground.

Only simmering before, his anger came to a boil, and Saul felt the red strength of rage begin to flood his body. It was a raw sort of strength, the kind that was quick and merciless but inefficient. It was reckless and, if not held in check, often led to mistakes.

Mistakes. Saul remembered something the man had said about mistakes. The rage rose. He didn’t care if it made him careless. Stepping toward the man, Saul raised his hands up to his face, ready to defend himself as well as deliver a blow.

As he got into range, the other man threw a wild blow at Saul. Sweeping his hand to the side, Saul tried to deflect the blow but misjudged. His hand swept below his opponent’s, and he took the blow square in the jaw. Still, rage was what it always was, and rather than retreat, Saul continued to advance.

As quick as his weary muscles would allow, he threw three jabs at the other man’s face. They were lazy punches but had the desired effect. His opponent’s arms raised to fend off the blow, leaving his torso unguarded. It was the chance Saul needed. He put all his anger into one punch to his enemy’s ribs. There was the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh, and Saul’s opponent crumpled to the ground with the wind knocked out of him.

Saul attempted to straddle the man to finish the fight, but with as tired as he was, it was nothing more than a half-hearted fall on top of the other man’s body. Turning the man over, Saul hit the man in the face with a weak blow.

A rare but familiar strength returned vigor to his body. It was hate. It was a slow strength, festering and building, but above all, it was all-consuming. Each time he drew his fist back, the next punch he delivered was fiercer than the one before.

He only managed to hit the man three times before something caught his wrist. It wasn’t a strong force, but it was enough to make him pause.

by **Saul Sticks** on January 30th, 2016, 11:25 pm

Saul looked back at whoever had caught his hand. It was Brat. Both her hands were wrapped around his wrist. She must have descended the rigging as soon as the fight started. Her eyes were wide; she was frightened.

“Stop, Uncle Saul,” she pleaded.

Saul wrenched his hand out of her grasp. “I haven’t humiliated him yet.”

Grabbing his wrist again, she tried to pull him away. It was a futile attempt, and she knew it. “He don’t need to be humiliated. You won. You taught him his lesson.”

Damn it. She always had to go and talk sense into him. He couldn’t hit the man again and still feel good about himself, let alone be able to look Brat in the eye. Damn her. He hated her for this. And loved her even more.

Gingerly, as his muscles ached doubly now from the work and the fight, Saul pushed himself up to his feet. “You’re right, Brat. I’m done working for the day. Let’s go.”

He turned his back on the man and began to walk away. He made Brat proud when he kept walking as the man laughed at him.

He stopped though when the man called out at his back, “Be proud, Saul. Listen to her telling the boys exactly what they want and need to hear. She’ll make a fine whore someday, just like your sister.”

Son of a bitch just had to go and make him look bad in front of Brat. Despite Brat trying to pull him away, Saul turned back to the man again and didn’t stop beating him until two of his fellow dockworkers dragged him off. Furious at being interrupted, Saul took a swing at one of them, but the fellow ducked the blow and tripped Saul. One of his coworkers, heavier than the rest, sat on Saul until he calmed down. It was effective, mostly because Saul couldn’t breathe. When the big man was convinced Saul was calm enough to let go, he got up and lifted Saul to his feet with one arm.

“It weren’t your fault, Saul. We know that.”

Saul shrugged the man’s arm off his shoulder and motioned to Brat. “Come on, Brat. We’re leaving.”

He held out his hand, and she took it willingly, pulling him toward the gangway. The ship’s captain looked displeased about what had occurred on his ship.

Saul gave him a curt nod as he walked by. “Sorry about the ruckus, captain.”

Spitting the blood in his mouth over the edge of the ship into the sea, he followed Brat off the docks. She was quiet. Saul didn’t like it when she was quiet. It generally meant she was thinking of something to say which was generally a lecture of one sort or another for something he had done.

“Go ahead and spit it out, Brat.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is your brain has been chewing on the last few chimes.”

She didn’t say it, not right away. Saul was pretty sure she was doing it on purpose just to frustrate him. Eventually though, she spoke. “You shouldn’t have started that fight.”

“You obviously weren’t paying attention. He started the fight.”

She stopped and gave him a look that said she was calling him out on his bullshit. “You said exactly what needed to be said to get him to throw the first punch. He may have thrown it, but you instigated it.”

“Instigated?” Saul didn’t like being on trial, especially with Brat as the judge. She was harsh, sometimes overly so. “I’d been walking away all morning.”

“And you could have walked away again. He ain’t the only one to blame here, Uncle Saul. You wanted that fight, maybe worse than he did.”

She went silent again and wouldn’t say anything, no matter how much Saul tried to apologize or piss her off. He said some things he shouldn’t have, but Brat led them slide off. Saul went to ruminating on how he felt which was mostly just sore. His left eye was beginning to swell shut, and he knew there would be a whopper of a bruise on the same cheek.

He wasn’t in the wrong for fighting. There was one thing he had been wrong about though. Losing the skin on his knuckles had totally been worth it. Having Brat mad at him almost took the joy out of it. Almost. But the fight had lifted his spirits. It had been too long since he had been able to put someone in their place. Brat was right. Saul had wanted that fight.

by **Dove Brown** on May 7th, 2016, 1:11 am

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Saul Sticks

Skills