Tuesday, 27 June 2017


The Return

Fighting dragons. Tricking thieves. Outsmarting wizards. Finally, discovering the long-lost treasure. Then the return: frozen wastes, burning deserts, jungles of festering corruption, pirates, wars. Ragnar overcame them all.

At last, he arrived home, and strode into the Great Hall of Books.

“I, Ragnar XLVII, have returned! Behold! The Book of the Ekskybalauron of Pandiculatory Awakenings, lost since Ragnar I perished attempting its magic!”

The Librarian examined the volume, then peered severely at Ragnar over her half-moon spectacles. “This is three thousand and twenty-six years, four months, and ten days overdue. I’m afraid there is going to be a rather large fine.”



This story previously appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 word weekly challenge.

Saturday, 17 June 2017

Zaprut

Zaprut is the oldest city of which we have any record.  Only its name survives, for the city was overtaken by a calamity so sudden, and so total, that none survived to say what befell it.

The name became synonymous with disaster, and in Roman times, hearing of some military debacle, senators would angrily declare, “Sic Zaprut!” — “thus was Zaprut!” fearing that Rome itself might pass the same way.

And that is why, nowadays, when a footballer wishes to express the depth of his emotion when his team loses a match, he will profess to being “sick as a parrot.”


Wednesday, 14 June 2017

A

I used to work for the Oxford English Dictionary. I got the very first word to define. It’s not just the indefinite article, it has seventy-one distinguishable uses, spread over twelve centuries. “A-gnostic”, “a-new”, “a-bed”, “a-rise”, “a-down-a-down-day”...

You know how, if you say word over and over, the sense goes out of it? After year of research, condensed into four pages of intense scholarship, I couldn’t bear seeing it.

When I retired, they gave me present, old book, “The Perfection of Wisdom In One Letter”. And the letter?  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

So I emigrated to Russia. They don’t have word for it.


Monday, 12 June 2017

Orcs

The three orcs sat round the fire, gnawing on the bones of an elf.

“You ever wonder,” began Hrakht.

“Wonderin’s for elves an’ yoomns,” grunted Gnurgle.

“I thought...” said Hrakht.

“Ooh, thinkin’ now, izzee?” jeered Rabjagh.

“You know Hrakht ’ere’s only half an orc?” said Gnurgle. “Yoomn mother. Must have scared her when he came out!”

Hrakht remained silent. How could he tell them that he didn’t feel like an orc at all? That he dreamed of belonging to one of the fair races, like the one they had just eaten.

In his dreams, he—no, she—called herself “Jill.”



This story previously appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 Word Challenge

Wednesday, 22 March 2017


ða hrefnas
(The ravens)

A fragment of an imaginary Anglo-Saxon poem in heroic alliterative verse.

The ravens arrive thundering in thick throngs
Their wings furiously flap as they flock
Mobbing the traveller, mocking with malign caws
“Hraak, hraak,” they cry, the ravening ravens.

A faint heart is fearful of the foul birds
A weak-headed wight fares poorly against wise foes
The strong man stays his course, striving ever onwards
Doughty are his deeds in the dark of their wings
With his stout staff he lays about to strike
Nor without taking wounds does he wager to win
Surely he shatters the birds’ swift bodies.

Thus must a man make merry with death
Turning always towards it.



Image from “Roots”, a build in Second Life by Cica Ghost, December 2015.
This story first appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 word story weekly challenge.

Saturday, 11 February 2017


Robe

There were lead coins sewn into the hem, to make the robes hang better, enhancing their gravity to enhance the gravitas of the Venerable Primate. Hah! He had never felt less venerable, with the new king openly contemptuous of all outside his imported coterie. No. Gravity, gravitas, would no longer do.

“These robes,” he said to his dresser, “do not meet the moment.”

“Yes, the times are changed,” said the dresser discreetly. “Ex officio, you can wear a military coat, but...”

“Indeed,” replied the Archbishop. “But. And state mourning for the old king is out of the question.” 

“Perhaps something of a more ambassadorial style would suit better, with your insignia of office. The king is technically not your direct superior, so it would be quite proper.”

“An excellent idea,” said the Archbishop. “An ambassador of the people, meeting with the new king in a spirit of constructive accommodation. See to it at once.”

But he feared that he might not long survive the coronation.



A shorter version of this story appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 word story weekly challenge.
Image credit: Jo Naylor (modified)

Friday, 27 January 2017


Box

“Eli and I are getting married!” the young woman said excitedly. “We’ll always be together.”

“‘Always’ is a long time, Liesl,” her great-grandfather gently chided. “They say that with modern medicine you might reach my age, and have another century still. You can forget a lot in that time.”

“Eli says we should never—”

“He's right,” he said shortly. After a while, he stood and reached down from a high shelf an ornamental wooden box.  He held it for a moment, considering.

“I want you to have this,” he said at last. “It’s glued shut, so it won’t be opened on a whim. But one day, long after I’m gone, you must open it.”

And one day, she did.



In many countries, today is Holocaust Memorial Day.