#AtoZChallenge: Untitled

Uther The Bold.

Unther The Dashing.

Ungular The Narcoleptic.

Urden looked at the plaques under her ancestors’ portraits and sighed. They all held great titles and were known throughout the kingdom for their mighty feats. At the end of the hall was a space for her portrait and an empty plaque. One day, it would read ‘Urden’. But what would follow her name? What would be her title and legacy? She had not achieved anything worthy of a title so far in her life, and she had no idea where to even begin.

Her father, Ulasfur The Firestarter, was legendary for his bomb making skills, which he used to defeat invaders and, well, anyone that upset him.

Her mother, Undilien The Hammerer, inspired awe and fear with her feats of strength, most of which involved using her fists like hammers and the heads of her enemies like nails.

Her brother, Urdar The Knife Eater, built his reputation on a most bizarre appetite.

And then there was Urden. Just Urden. She was not extraordinarily strong or skilled with weapons. She certainly didn’t like the taste of knives.

All she had was her imagination, dreaming up impressive acts that she might one day perform, such as defeating the Five-Mouthed Narglebeast or conquering distant kingdoms.

As she pondered her future and the name that would one day be inscribed on her plaque, she put her imagined feats to parchment, penning fantastical chronicles of a mighty warrior. She didn’t want anyone to know she was writing about herself, so she made up a name for the heroine of her story: Ularda Toothsmasher. That sounded good.

She would sometimes read aloud from her stories, giving voice to Ularda’s many exploits. One day, her father’s cup bearer overheard part of the story, where Ularda was fighting the Narglebeast with her bare hands, and mistook it for truth. He then told the story to her mother’s armor polisher, who told some of her friends. Thus did the tales of Ularda spread, causing quite a stir throughout the kingdom as everyone pondered over this fearsome warrior they had only just heard of.

Urdar would talk about her at length, of how he would one day like to meet her and impress by devouring an entire battleaxe. Ulasfur wondered if she would be interested in adding some bombs to her arsenal, and Undilien vowed to fight alongside her to the death. Urden remained silent during these discussions. She neither praised nor condemned this mysterious new warrior.

Cults were built around Ularda, fanatics praising her name and trying to divine every minute aspect of her life. Where she was born, where she grew up, who her family was, if she had any suitors. Urden’s little tale had gotten out of control.

She could keep it a secret no longer. Urden confessed to creating Ularda and her stories. Her parent didn’t believe her at first, but she showed them the parchments and the little portraits she had made. Once the truth was out, she expected the worst.

Much to her astonishment, there was no punishment. Rather, people were amazed at her storytelling skill and asked that she tell them more tales about Ularda Toothsmasher. Urden was more than happy to oblige.

She wrote many more stories about the fearsome warrior and, over time, wrote about many others as well. Wizards and mages, proud orc chiefs and conniving goblin shamans. The kingdom was enraptured by her fanciful tales.

At last the time came to add Urden’s portrait to that of her ancestral line. There was only one title that seemed fitting:

Urden The Author.

#AtoZChallenge: Quantum Dislocation, or The Assassin Who Brought No Spare Pants

Quentin was stuck and couldn’t see any way out. When he had woken up that morning to the chiming melody of his holo-alarm, he couldn’t possibly have guessed that mere hours later, he’d be sinking in quicksand. Yet there he was. Life could be funny sometimes. Not funny like a good joke, but you get the point.

He was sinking fast and had not time for a flashback, but Quentin would be damned if he didn’t get some exposition in before dying.

Quentin Fiddleswitch was what they called a ‘ghost’. Not in the sense that he was dead, but more in the sense that he could phase between dimensions at will. He could, for example, exit the dimension of this story and enter the world where you’re sitting at your computer reading this. Or at least, he could if he still had his phase disruptor with him. Alas, he did not. All he had was a very sinking feeling and an aversion to bad puns.

I should also probably mention that he was an assassin. That’s important for the next part of the story.

Quentin had been hired by The Organization (a secret society so secretive that they didn’t even have a real name) to eliminate a high-ranking government official, because who would bother paying him for one of the low-ranking officials? Or an intern? Could you imagine a man such as Quentin Fiddleswitch being hired to kill an intern? Hardly.

The official was a member of the Council for Inter-Dimensional Regulation and Safety Against Interlopers From Other Dimensions, which, aside from being a terribly impractical name, also meant bad news for Quentin and his ilk. So he set out on his task, gathering intel on his target and working out the best way to kill him and make it look like an accident. When you’re a shadowy and ominous group like The Organization, it seems you would just kill people and not worry about your PR, but they were very finicky about hiding their involvement in these things. It didn’t really matter to Quentin as long as he got paid.

At last he had the perfect plan. The official was going on a jungle expedition in a parallel universe. Some sort of inter-dimensional political maneuver, but basically a paid vacation and photo-op. Quentin knew exactly what he had to do. It involved an irate crocodile (though on further examination, he was certain it was an alligator), a poison dart, two cans of whipped cream and a pit of quicksand. It was inspired. A true work of art. A plan so ingenious that it would be pointless to explain it as you lot wouldn’t comprehend its sublime intricacies anyway.

No offense to you.

But it was a good plan.

However, as you’ve probably figured out from reading the introductory paragraph, things did not go to plan. Of course you did. I never doubted your intelligence for a second.

Through a series of rather improbable and frankly ludicrous events, Quentin ended up accidentally phasing into his own trap. The alligator ran off with his disruptor belt, the official escaped unharmed (and with several lovely pictures of his expedition to have as keepsakes or to share with strangers on the webbosphere) and all Quentin had left was a half empty can of whipped cream. It was of no use to him at all, so he threw it away.

He was struggling to escape and regretting the little detour into the past. Instead of narrating previous events, I could have been talking about how he got out of his perilous situation. But then how would you have caught up on what’s happened? It’s not like there’s a pamphlet accompanying this story or anything.

As he sank another inch, Quentin realized there was only one way out of this. He needed a deus ex machina. An author-devised solution that would save him from the most impossible odds. Fortunately, he had one. An improbable series of events that led to Quentin being pulled out of the quicksand by the very same alligator that had put him there. Call it irony, providence or contrived drivel, it did the trick. Quentin was out. Unfortunately, he was also naked and watched the collar of his shirt disappeared into the pit with a sorry gloop.

After a grueling gator-wrestling session, Quentin retrieved his phase disruptor belt. Since he had failed in his mission, he needed to get away and lay low for a while. The governments of several dimensions would be displeased about the attempted assassination and The Organization didn’t forgive failure. Though honestly, it wouldn’t be much of an evil society if it did.

So Quentin strapped on his belt and piloted a course for the one dimension where he could be safe for a while. I can’t really tell you where he went,of course, but it’s a place where The Organization’s influence doesn’t extend. Not yet, anyway, but that would be a story for another time.

So that’s it then, the tale of Quentin Fiddleswitch and his failed assassination attempt. You can move along and get back to your daily lives. Writing biographies or shopping for new hats or whatever it is people do in their spare time. And if you happen to see a naked little man wearing a strange belt run past, don’t be alarmed.

Just find him some pants.

#AtoZChallenge: Nemesis

It was another quiet afternoon in the neighborhood and Neville Bartson was looking forward to a warm cup of tea while sitting out on his lawn. He was growing accustomed to retirement, to hours spent without worrying about tasks that needed to be completed, and naps that weren’t interrupted by crisis. It had been two years since he moved into the neighborhood looking for a change of pace, and he’d certainly found it. He had no family to speak of, though he had come to know his neighbors quite well. Neville was truly enjoying his golden years.

He went out to the little garden that he had started tending. A few buds were starting to sprout; it wouldn’t be long before the flower bed would be a bloom of colors. Satisfied, Neville was about to walk back inside when he saw someone standing on the sidewalk, watching him.

The figure was covered from head to toe in copper-colored armor, with little touches of black and steel gray to break up the color. A dark cloak was slung around one shoulder and he wore a helm on his head with two curving bull-like horns and a slot through which baleful eyes glared. A scabbard hung from his left hip with a sword that might have been half the length of his body.

“Hello there,” Neville said, with a small wave. “Are you looking for someone?”

The mysterious figure raised one gloved hand, each finger covered by several overlapping armored segments. He pointed right at Neville.

“It is you I seek, Neville Bartson!” His voice was like thunder booming in an auditorium. “I have traveled many leagues on a journey of many days to find you. Long have I awaited our meeting. ”

Neville’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know you.”

The figure thrust its armored chest out and loomed over him. “I am Glomdar the Misfortuner, Terror of the Saltlands and Scourge of Fenhall!”

“Glomdar…” Neville thought for a moment. “Hold on, are you the Gillings’ boy from across the street? I always thought your name was Kevin. You work in insurance, don’t you?”

“I know not of this Kevin! I am Glomdar of the Ravenspit! Despair is my helm and Devastation my cloak!”

“And that pays well, does it? Sounds more exciting than insurance.”

Glomdar gawked at him in disbelief. “Enough of this!” he roared, waving one hand in a loud, clanking gesture. “I have not come here to speak of insurance! I have come for you, Neville Bartson! I am your nemesis!”

“You are?” Neville scratched his nose. “Odd…I don’t remember hiring one. Very well then, you may be a nemesis if you like. I’m not reimbursing you for meals, though.”

Glomdar stiffened. “What?”

“Look, I don’t fully understand the terms of our contract, but if you’re going to be my nemesis you’ll have to cover your own expenses.”

Glomdar was trying to assess the situation, his dark eyes darting around furiously behind his helmet. “I had not expected this. I was told that you were a formidable foe, Neville Bartson. But you are just…just…”

“Old?” Neville smiled. “You may mock me now, young man, but one day, you’ll have aching joints to worry about too. Rather soon, I expect, with all that heavy armor jangling about.”

The both of them stood where they were in silence. A car passed by, slowing momentarily as the driver did a double take. A bird chirped somewhere above them.

“Would you like some tea?” Neville said.

Glomdar was dumbstruck. He clenched and unclenched one fist, considering this unexpected proposal. He nodded.

“Come on in then.”

Neville got out his most elegant tea cups, white porcelain with a floral design along one side. They had always been reserved for guests, but Neville didn’t have too many people coming around of late. He filled them with boiling water, put tea leaves in two strainers (Neville never used tea bags) and let them steep for a few moments. Glomdar was sitting at the small round table in the kitchen, shifting and adjusting his armor.

Neville placed the cups on a tray and brought them to the table.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked if you wanted any sugar.”

Glomdar shook his head. “Sweetness does not suit me, Neville Bartson.”

“You can just call me Neville, you know. No need for such formality.”

“Very well. Neville.”

The little china teacup looked even more dainty in Glomdar’s giant hands, as if he were cradling a newly hatched bird. He took a sip, taking care not to scratch the cup against the sharp edges of his helmet.

“How do you like it?”

‘It pales in comparison to the nectar of the Dire Gods, but it is quite nice.”

“It’s chamomile.”

“Ah.”

Glomdar placed the cup gently back on its saucer with a soft clink.

“I am grateful that you invited me into your home, Neville. But I must fulfill my purpose. As your nemesis, I have come to challenge you to a duel from which only one of us can emerge victorious. Prepare yourself for battle. I will give you fifteen mi – ”

Glomdar paused then, and his eyes widened as he looked at Neville. Both hands clutched at his throat.

“You cheated!” he croaked, before toppling to the floor in a clanking heap.

Neville finished his tea, put the cups away and walked up to his attic. Soft cooing sounds greeted him. He smiled at the white pigeon that sat in a small coop by the window, its feathers tinged with silver. There was a desk near the coop with a sheaf of parchments. Neville took a parchment and scrawled a message on it, then went to the coop and tied it around one of the pigeon’s legs.

“Godspeed, Cloudpiercer.”

The pigeon fluttered out of his hands, circled around the neighborhood twice, then disappeared into the clear spring sky. Neville went back down and set about removing Glomdar’s armor. He had given up the old ways so long ago. He didn’t think anyone still remembered his name anymore. It was flattering to think that some young upstart should consider him worth of a challenge, but he was well past the age of dueling.

Neville preferred to kill his enemies with kindness. A little cobra venom didn’t hurt either.

#AtoZChallenge: Multitasking

Melissa woke up to the sound of her daughter crying. It was more powerful than any alarm clock. She checked the time: 5 AM. Her head thudded back against the pillow. Next to her, Mark was stirring. She forced herself out of bed and shuffled over to check on Lily. Her oldest daughter, Madison, bounded out of her room with more energy than anyone should have at that hour. The day had officially begun.

The morning was a flurry of breakfast preparation and lunch packing. Melissa zipped around the kitchen like a lightning bolt, organizing everything she needed and laying out three lunch bags with well-practiced efficiency. She kissed Mark goodbye and gave Madison a hug (though she was getting to the age where overt shows of affection made her squirm) and saw them out the door. Finally, she had a few moments to breathe.

Lily gurgled and tossed a spoonful of pureed carrots across the kitchen table. Breathing would have to wait.

Once the kitchen had been cleaned (again), Melissa consulted her list for the day. There were groceries to buy, she had to pick up some supplies for Madison’s science project, followed by a quick stop at the bank and then Madison needed to be picked up from soccer practice. It sounded simple enough. But first, she had to tidy up the place.

Melissa zoomed from room to room, dusting, vacuuming and mopping. In almost no time at all, the house was spotless. It was time for grocery shopping.

After hopping for a quick shower, she got dressed and packed Lily’s bottle and diapers in her Emergency Baby Kit. With Lily nestled in one arm, Melissa walked out the door. And promptly walked back in to pick up her car keys from the coffee table.

She found a good spot open in the grocery store parking lot, but part of it was blocked by a bad parking job. Melissa sighed and got out of the car. She looked around to make sure the lot was empty, then nudged the offending car with her foot and slowly slid it out of her spot.

Grocery shopping was always a quick affair. She was done in just a few minutes, gliding around the store and around the other shoppers with ease. As Melissa raced over to the checkout lane, she came to a screeching stop. Self-checkout. An old woman with a befuddled expression and a cartful of groceries. A hapless store clerk. She was going nowhere fast. Unless…

Melissa zipped to and from the counter at lightning speed, checking out all of the items to the old woman’s delight and the cashier’s befuddlement. As the woman walked away, still excited about her speedy checkout, Melissa paid for her groceries and headed out to the parking lot. It was time to go to the hardware store. Lily laughed and spit up all over her shirt. The hardware store would have to wait.

With Lily all cleaned up, Melissa was back on track. She strode into the hardware store and consulted her list. A few basic supplies that were no trouble at all. Then came the plyboard. The exact boards she needed were stacked on the highest shelf and she couldn’t see any attendants around. Melissa jumped, grabbing onto the top of the shelf with one hand, and gathered the boards she needed with her free arm. She leapt down and deposited the boards in her cart. All supplies were bought, a clear checkout counter was found, and she was off to the bank.

Melissa found herself facing another long line. There was only one teller available, and it seemed half the city had business to conduct that day. She waited. And waited. And waited. The line shuffled along. Melissa almost pounced on the teller when it was her turn. Her transaction was interrupted by a loud bang.

“Everybody on the ground! Now!”

Banks robbers. Melissa rubbed her temples in frustration. The lead robber was striding around the lobby brandishing a shotgun while his cronies intimidated the tellers and other customers. A chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. Melissa grabbed the pen at the counter, snapping off the chain that tethered it. She waited until the leader was standing just under the chandelier. Timing was everything. Then, trying not to be noticed, she tossed the pen like a dart.

The pen hit one of the candelabras mounted on the chandelier, causing it to fall right on the leader’s head. He staggered around for a moment, then went down. The bank’s security guards took advantage of the ensuing confusion to overpower most of the thugs. One of them made a break for it. In the blink of an eye, Melissa overtook the gunman, tripped him, and was promptly back at the counter. Everyone applauded the security guards. Melissa turned back to the teller.

It was a quick transaction after that. She glanced at her watch as she walked way. There was still plenty of time for soccer practice. She was in no rush.

As she got to the car, a loud rumble shook the earth. The sound of screaming soon followed, and then a crowd of people went running past her. Up ahead she saw a giant robot, all metallic arms and legs with a glass bubble in the center. It stomped around, crushing cars under its clawed feet and firing lasers into the air. Lily clapped her hands and cooed at it. Melissa sighed and opened the trunk to fish out her work outfit.

Soccer practice would have to wait.

#AtoZChallenge: Irritation

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound went on and on, boring itself into Ilomen’s skull. Would there be no end to his torment?

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Ilomen gnashed his teeth. It didn’t help. He couldn’t believe he had to endure this torture. He was descended from the most fearsome archdemons in the Under Realms. He deserved better than this.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Nobody else was saying anything. Why weren’t they saying anything? Were they all such spineless fools that none of them would silence this monster? It was unacceptable.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The last strands of Ilomen’s patience snapped. He had to end it. At once.

Click. Clack. Click –

“Grrahh!”

Unleashing a mighty roar, Ilomen raised his hammerlike fist into the air and brought it down with stunning force. A splintering noise was followed by a loud howl. Bits of plastic and ink splattered in every direction.

“Ilomen! What have I told you about disrupting my classrom?” Ms. Grodsworth was livid. Some of the other students were giggling. Others stifled their laughter. Wozer, the subject of Ilomen’s wrath, rubbed his throbbing paw, his snout streaked with ink.

“Sorry, ma’am.” Ilomen slumped down in his seat. He was most likely going to get detention for this. Perhaps his father, the Dread Lord Ilmana, would be summoned for a talk with the principal again.

But at least he didn’t have to listen to that blasted clicking any longer.

#AtoZChallenge: Exit Stage Left

Edwin Calstock was more nervous than he had ever been in his life. It was opening night for his play ‘The Dame of Versailles’ (A Drama in III Acts by Edwin Calstock) and he still wasn’t sure if their lead actress could handle the part. She was a recent hire. In fact, she had just been hired that morning, seeing as their previous lead actress couldn’t commit to the role. Well, she was dead. That was the reason she couldn’t commit.

Edwin had found himself in quite a bind after Minerva’s demise. There was no time to hold lengthy auditions for a new actress and the theater owner, Mr. Wellis, was not the most understanding or patient of men. If Edwin didn’t find a lead actress in another day, his life would be over. And worse still, his career as a playwright.

The play’s director, Robert Bland, had been running around the streets of Camden, trying to find a new face. It didn’t seem to Edwin the most efficient way of solving their problem, but he didn’t have any better ideas. Much to his surprise, Robert showed up that morning with a strange woman in tow. Not just strange in the sense that she was a stranger; there was something very unusual about her appearance and overall demeanor.

She had an unnaturally graceful gait; it was almost as if she were gliding over the floor. Robert was a tall man, but she was perhaps a good head taller, with skin so pale it almost shone in the daylight. Her hair was pulled back and tucked under a peculiar looking hat, but a few copper-colored strands hung loose. Her eyes were pale green, but as she came closer, Edwin realized that wasn’t quite right. They were luminescent, as if she had a gas lamp installed in her head. He was entranced by her, transfixed by those sparkling eyes.

Her voice was rich and deep, like a well-brewed cup of tea, though her odd, lilting accent gave him pause. But perhaps she could pass for French that way. It was more fitting. She said her name was Ellara, though she offered no family name. Her dress had unusual patterns embroidered onto it and she talked of places and events that Edwin had never heard of. Robert claimed she was from America, but that didn’t seem right. But then, Edwin had never been to America, so who was he to say?

Thus, Ellara was cast in the role and spent the afternoon rehearsing. She was a quick study and memorized all of her lines. Yet, Edwin could not help but feel unsettled. In part, because the mutton he had for lunch was a tad undercooked. but mostly because he had no idea how Ellara would actually perform once on stage.

The theater was completely full; every last ticket had been sold. Mr. Wellis was sitting up in his private booth. The curtains parted and the crowd fell silent. It was time for the show. All Edwin could do was hope. And perhaps book the next ship out of England, just in case.

Ellara walked onto the stage and Edwin’s heart sank. She wasn’t in costume, nor had she applied any makeup. He was doomed. She stood at the center of the stage and surveyed the audience with her lamplike green eyes. And then, much to everyone’s surprise, especially Edwin’s, she began to sing. There were no words to the song. Rather, there were no words that he could recognize, but as soon as he heard them, they turned into pictures.

There were vivid images of ancient kingdoms built among the stars. Gleaming spires that pierced the heavens and shining domes that covered entire cities. The people that lived in these kingdoms looked human, but there was something peculiar about them, especially their eyes, which shone like the sun. Perhaps they were gods, or simply a long forgotten race. The images changed. Now the strange beings were waging war, using weapons forged of light and darkness. People died, kingdoms crumbled until only the stars remained. And a child, with hair the color of copper and dull green eyes brimming with sadness. She was alone now, the last of her kind.

The song ended then, and Edwin was snapped out of his trance. He was sobbing with an intensity he hadn’t experienced since his school days. Coming back to himself, Edwin wiped the tears from his eyes and looked around the theater in confusion. He was alarmed to see the stage empty. Ellara was gone, and who knows what sort of performance she had delivered while he was daydreaming. What was he dreaming about anyway? He remembered shining stars, and little else.

The crowd was still quiet. Had they hated it? Were they waiting to unleash their boos? Had they left? Edwin thought it best not to dwell on it and was about to sneak out the back when he heard a faint clapping noise. The noise built in volume, turning into thunderous applause. As Edwin peeked past the curtain, he saw the crowd on its feet. All of them had tears glistening on their cheeks, even Mr. Wellis.

Edwin had no idea what happened, but the play, it seemed, was a success. He was elated. Ecstatic. Absolutely thrilled. And, once again, without a lead actress.

#AtoZChallenge: Curses!

 

“Next!”

Clartak tapped the tip of his boot against the stone tiles with increasing impatience. He had been waiting in line for almost an hour already and he was going nowhere fast. There were three witches, a hobgoblin and two more creatures he couldn’t identify standing ahead of him. One of them looked like an armored stork and the other might have been a mummified accountant.

After another thirty minutes, a significant amount of which was taken up by the stork, Clartak was called to the counter.

The toad-headed clerk adjusted the horn rimmed glasses perched on his wide nose and looked up. At the sight of Clartak, the pouch under his throat pulsed with irritation.

“Back again?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m back again. And I will keep coming back until my request is approved.”

Clartak crossed his arms in defiance and stared hard at the clerk, hoping perhaps, that he could transform him into something terrible or hideous. Then again, thought Clartak, the man’s already a toad.

“You have been advised previously, Mr. Clickclack – ”

“Clartak – ”

” – that you cannot submit an application to curse a town over meaningless personal slights. A town may only be cursed if they have robbed you of your livelihood, burned you at the stake as a witch or tainted your family name and legacy forever. There are provisions and sub-provisions that allow us to make exceptions, but very few. And you do not fit the necessary criteria.”

“You don’t understand!” hissed Clartak, spraying specks of spittle on the witchglass separating him from the clerk. “They laughed at me! Me! They think I’m a joke! But not for long! Not if this request goes through! Don’t you see? This is my chance to prove that I am the evilest warlock in the village! Nay, in the county! And when the town is suffering its eternal damnation, do you know who’ll be laughing then? Do you?”

The clerk blinked once. “Will it be you?”

“Yes!” Clartak cried, pumping his fist in the air triumphantly and almost punching the cyclops at the next counter in the face. “I, Clartak the Conflagrater, will have the last laugh!”

The clerk rested his giant head on one webbed hand, his round eyes narrowing to hooded slits.

“Well, that sounds wonderful. You have no idea how much it warms my heart to see you tackle adversity head-on like this.”

“So you’ll approve my request?”

“No.”

“What?!”

The clerk adjusted his glasses again and shifted his bulk forward so his slimy face was almost pressed up against the glass.

“I have already told you that personal slights are not an acceptable justification. Your application is denied. Your town will remain uncursed unless the committee should decree otherwise.

As a general rule, the committee never decrees otherwise.”

Clartak fumed with fury. “Very well then. You think you’re so high and mighty? You think that you hold my fate in your grubby little hands? Ha!”

He paused for emphasis as an uncomfortable murmur arose from the others in the room.

“Ha! You shall not defeat me! No one shall defeat me! For I am Clartak the Conflagrater, Bringer of Doom and Killer of Small Bugs, and I shall not go down so easy!”

He drew himself up to his full height and stared down at the toad man in front of him. “You, my friend are about to suffer a misfortune most…erm…unfortunate! You shall never know happiness again! For the rest of your days, your little toad heart will know naught but misery! So say I, Clarta – ”

“I’m sorry, but did you just curse me?”

Clartak’s brow crinkled. “What?”

“Did you just put a curse on me?”

The wizened wizard’s bony chest swelled with pride. “Why yes, I do believe I did.”

“Under Section 452.8, Subsection Omega, Item 8, curses and/or hexes uttered without the proper permits and attested documentation are a violation of Article 666 in the Constitution of General Hocus Pocus chartered by the Department of Curseology and Monstrous Affairs. To do so carries with it a fine of 5,000 galleons and ten years of hard time in the Netherspace.”

Clartak’s face turned the same pale shade as his scraggly beard. “Oh. Well, that wasn’t a curse. Not really. I mean, not in the strictest sense. It was more of a general, ‘Curse you!’ than a proper curse, you know? Just a little cursing around between friends.” He burst into a series of giggles then, though the clerk didn’t seem to find much humor in the situation.

“Mr. Claptrap. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Yes, good idea.”

Clartak sprinted out of the Department of Curseology and Monstrous Affairs while that was still a possibility for him. It was turning out to be a rotten day.

 

 

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.”

Three Line Tales: A Midsummer Night’s Lemons

Photo Credit: Erol Ahmed

Life, thou foul rogue!

Thou wouldst hand me lemons?

Then I shall bedevil thee with lemonade!

Written for Three Line Tales: Week Fifteen.

A to Z Challenge: Baa, Baa, Black Sheep

 

“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: A Mind is a Terrible Thing…

Photo Credit: Glen Noble

A collection of tomes as far as the eye can see, rivaling the Library of Alexandria!

A vast store of knowledge from around the world, covering every subject known to man!

I wonder if any of these books have naked pictures…

Written for Three Line Tales: Week Five.

Three Line Tales: Fallen

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.

Three Line Tales: In The Dark

Another week, another 3 Line Tale:

As the moon begins to cast its silvery glow, the sun departs over a golden horizon.

The world watches this celestial dance in wonder,

Unaware that they’re witnessing the universe’s most awkward exes.

 

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.

The Girl In The Moon

There once was a girl named June,

Who wanted to live on the moon.

So she flew up to space,

In search of a place,

Where she wouldn’t be considered a loon.