It is not a small cart nor a big cart, nor is it a bad cart or a good cart. It is a cart and nothing much at that. Kindly put, it aids us and that is all I and Dun want in a cart. In our small cart that roams a tiny country is a hard-won sack of food. How that sack of food is now ours is a short but arduous story of which I shall say in full.

On a dull and gray morning, Dun was busy packing away our night camp into our small cart. A crashing sound, akin to falling rocks, shook our still morning. Dun sprang away, and I lay low among our things. Turning so I could look out across a burlap sack, I saw a man. It was no ordinary man. This man's skin was pink from running far through mountains and high hills. Pink Man, I will call him. 'Tis only right.

I saw what Pink Man was running from shortly. A mountain was crumbling and would block his path and many rocks would crush him flat as a panfish. Dun and I stood up to watch Pink Man run. I thought Pink Man ran funny, a touch wobbly and wiggly. Awkward.

Dun and I ran toward Pink Man, but not quickly. I was of no mind to aid at my own risk nor was Dun. Pink Man was too slow to outrun a crumbling mountain. With a final bound and a grunt, Pink Man was not Pink Man. His sack hit my foot as Dun and I slowly ran up. It wasn't too big, just a small thing. Dun was studying Pink Man's rocky coffin.

"What a dismal turn, isn't it Rün?" Dun said flatly.

"I concur," I said as monotonously.

"What now?"

"Look through his sack?" I had to ask. Dun had it in his hands. In our hard-won sack was food, not a lot of food, but food Dun and I could not do without. Dun put our sack in our small cart and not again was a word said of crumbling mountains and a pink man. 

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I ain't gonna tell you what is special about this story. I'll let you guess. @autumn_sunfire don't you say a word about it. XD