Prodigal Son

“Hark!” exclaimed Lord Pennyfeather, grabbing the arm of his trusty valet Thimble. “Dost I hear the clattering of hooves approaching our gates?”

“Aye, m’lord.” Thimble replied. “A rider approaches.”

“Who is it? Is it Archibald? Has he returned at last?” Lord Pennyfeather sounded expectant, straining his milky white eyes in a vain effort to see the mounted visitor.

“It is indeed, m’lord. Lord Archibald has come home from the war. But he’s not the same man he was, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. Of course.” Lord Pennyfeather’s bony shoulder slumped and he hung his head in relfection. “The ravages of war can break even the most hardened warriors. Such carnage and devastation wreaked upon sons and brothers who fight for some unseen glory. My poor boy. Who knows what horrors he hath witnessed on the field of battle that would have changed him so.”

Thimble fidgeted, looking back and forth between his master and the young man who was now outside the gates.

“Uhh no, m’lord,” he said, twiddling his thumbs nervously. “That’s not quite what I meant. I wasn’t referring to a psychological or mental change. No sir. Lord Archibald is not the same man in a more literal sense.”

Lord Pennyfeather’s bushy eyebrows leaped up to his crinkled forehead in surprise.

“Whatever do you mean, Thimble? I pray, speak not in riddles, my most loyal friend. Tell me, how has my son changed?”

Thimble paused a moment, deciding how best to break the news, settling for the most direct approach in the end.

“Well, he’s a zombie, m’lord.”

“Oh.” Lord Pennyfeather’s brows now came together in conference as he considered this vital bit of information. “Well, seal the gates and shoot the bugger. No point getting everyone else infected.”

A to Z Challenge: Baa, Baa, Black Sheep

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“Baa, baa, Black Sheep, have you any wool?”

“First of all, there’s no need to say ‘baa’. I speak English, you know. And ‘baa’ doesn’t even mean anything. It’s just the sound you humans hear.”

“Oh, well…”

“And my name’s Billingsley.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Billingsley.”

“Billingsley?”

“Billingsley.”

“Billingsley the Black Sheep?”

“I’m the only sheep here! What do you mean ‘black sheep’? I don’t call you ‘man that smells like stale cheese’, do I?”

“Well, I mean, that’d just be rude.”

“Change your diet then.”

“I – Look, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to offend you, sh…err, Billingsley. I was just wondering if you had any wool.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Three bags of it.”

“Great! May I have some?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They’re taken. One bag’s for my master and the other’s for my dame.”

“Alright. I didn’t know you had a master. And a…dame? Do we even have any dames or dukes or whoever here?”

“My girlfriend. I call her my dame.”

“Oh. Is she a sheep too?”

“Goat.”

“Ah.”

“Why would I give her wool if she were a sheep?”

“I don’t know…”

“Is there anything else?”

“Err…I…yes! You’ve still got one bag left! Can’t I just have that?”

“No. That’s for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

“What little boy?”

“You wouldn’t know him. He lives all the way at the end of the lane. You probably haven’t seen him. I find it highly unlikely that your paths would have crossed.”

“And this little boy needs a whole bag of wool?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever for?”

“Look, I just sell wool. I don’t ask questions.”

“Of course.”

“Now if that’ll be all, I’ve got some deliveries to make.”

“Sigh. Alright then, she – Billingsley.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”


 

“Moo, moo, brown cow, have you any – ”

“First of all, there’s no need to say ‘moo’. I speak English, you know…”

Three Line Tales: Fallen

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Photo Credit: Alyssa Smith

When Randall Bowman was bitten by a genetically altered chameleon, he gained abilities he had never dreamed of.

Able to manipulate light and color, he dubbed himself Spectrum and dedicated his life to making the world a brighter place.

For some reason, he thought the chameleon had also granted him the power of flight, ending his superhero career but gaining immense fame as a work of street art.

For this week’s Three Line Tales.

Case Closed

Not every mystery has a satisfying solution.

Sometimes the answer is stupidly simple, or so bizarre that even Sherlock Holmes would be thrown for a loop.

Detective Mason knew that quite well.

Still, getting ingested by a homicidal space butterfly didn’t seem like a particularly good ending to this case.