Lastmod issues, future

Baking was my father's one true gift. He once made a loaf so light that it got away. It rose over the barn and drifted toward Hamelin. We chased it on horseback for a week with butter knives. A passing crow got the crust, and we got the blame.

Witches in the Harz once turned me into a toad for an hour. It was no trouble. I kept my rank, my manners, and my mustache. I hopped to the nearest inn and ordered a glass of wine, and the waiter gave me the best table in the house.

Goats in Albania climb better than any sailor, and I once hired a few for my navy. They went up the masts and ate the rigging. Then they ate the flag. We lost the ship but won the respect of the enemy, who laughed so hard they forgot to shoot.

Sleep came hard to a Carpathian bear I met, so I read him my poems. He was out by the second page. He slept all winter, and I took his cave. In April he rose, thanked me kindly, and asked for the rest, and I ran for my life.

Moths ate every uniform in my regiment one night in Kiev. We woke in our skin at a bad time, for the enemy had.