Dull Harbor came about with the intention of writing something lighter, something somewhat comical, and an attempt to escape the bents i tend to turn to. A solid c-minus on all accounts. The strangest parts of the story came from a dream, and fit nicely with ideas i find interesting to ramble around. I think, if nothing else, it sets Darker Pallor up for a wonderful Scooby-Doo conclusion.
Dull Harbor was a small border town in the far southeast of the country, right along the coastline and just north of a small marsh that was only significant as it could be contested. There was a lot of trouble with those people over across the border, as they had a whole lack of understanding of simple decency and the concept of dividing lines, often crossing over where they weren’t wanted and putting their own feet on soil over which they had not dropped from their mother’s wombs.
That was the sort of behavior that had led to the wars of many years ago, that led to the massacres of our people, of our innocents, of our children – massacred in parks as they played, massacred in the bedrooms as they slept, massacred in their mothers’ arms. If it hadn’t been for old Walker, they would have exterminated the entirety of our country – every one of us.
But Walker had the rigs, and those had brought about a peace that stayed with us for over three hundred years. They came across the border, they came across and visited the shops – especially those on Chronic Creek – but they more or less knew their place since the last war. They more or less stayed away. But you’ve got to watch them – ‘cause they’re sneaky: Everybody knows, you can’t trust a cat.
It’s been quiet, here in Dull. Not quiet in the sense of peace and, but in the sense that peace was struck and stuck. There’s a sense of community that’s been growin’ like we’d never been. Come together, like we are, it’s kept all the agitators, manipulators, those with interest to turn our citizens against another – they’ve more or less stayed away for several years. They’ve turned their interests other places.
They aren’t gone, though. They’re never gone for long, not from these crossroads of many’s interest. But they’ve been pushed back into shadows. Their narrative towards bloodshed is pushed back where it belongs. Back in the darkness. Their clamors for devoted violence have met rejection.
But there’s… Ya catch a scent. Just a whiff in the breeze that comes down through the valley. Ya can’t forget it once you’ve smelled it, and you seek it out. Ya chase it down – we have got to be unrelenting. Of course, most people haven’t smelled it.
It’s a scent from far off places, people – they don’t know.
Ya can’t leave it. Ya can’t forget about it, turn away or leave that scent trail. We have got to track it down. ‘Cause, we aren’t forgotten: They’re gonna be here.