Tag Archives: fantasy

A Dragon-shaped Hole in Reality

There are no such things as dragons, which is why it was so puzzling when one suddenly appeared and landed on the Statue of Liberty. It let out a long burst of flame, making the great copper lady droop a bit on her left side. Then it flew away and disappeared, leaving the world quite distraught.

Flabbergasted even.

It wasn’t the damage, it was the sudden, dragon-shaped hole in our understanding of the world. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world for the late nights it would take to fit a dragon into modern scientific theory.

“What if it comes back?” the news networks screamed. Their fingers were on the panic button, eyes on the ratings chart.

“What if it doesn’t?” the scientists inquired. Biologists warmed up their DNA sequencers, physicists tried out new formulas (E=mc2+Dr?).

And then the world waited.

Hollywood made movies. Fantasy enthusiasts wrote slashfic of Draco and the Statue of Liberty. Survivalists bought even larger caliber weapons and nodded to each other smugly (“I knew it was dragons all along”). Conspiracy theorists quickly shoehorned a dragon into their schematics, somewhere between the Illuminati and the Reptilian Elite.

It never came back.

Eventually, the world collectively gave a cough of embarrassment, repaired the Statue, and got on with life. People shrugged.

“It must have been a fluke.”

 


Sword Music – Friday Fictioneers

First of all, I was very happy to see my picture appear here.  I’m curious to see what others make of it. Secondly, I won’t be able to do that much this week, since I’m out of town on a business trip until Sunday. I’ll have Internet and will try to find time to read some.

Copyright David Stewart

Copyright David Stewart

Sword Music

The first note hovered in the air like an orb-weaver hanging from the horn of the moon.

More instruments joined, the energy rising like a waking predator. It ascended, a frenetic dervish, around the musicians, touching the forest of upraised swords. The edges kindled, maddened to fury by the throbbing cacophony of raw power.

The music ceased, except the first lingering, arachnid note. The hungry light of a thousand blades was quenched in their sheaths.

“We desire peace,” the king said, “but you see our weapons. Go tell your people.”

The ambassador wiped his brow. “There will be peace,” he said.


First Week at the Nexus

I realize this is two letters home from children in a week, but they’re very different and apparently this is how my mind is thinking at the moment.

copyright Joe Owens

copyright Joe Owens


Dear Mum and Dad,

Greetings from the land of inter-dimensional hospitality! Well, my first week at the Nexus Hotel is over. It didn’t drive me insane but there were several points where I wished I’d never been born. Sorry Mum, you did your best and all.

It’s pretty brutal out here. I had a party of Neanderthals stumble in from some primitive dimension and demand the first floor suites. No credit card, of course, but I got half a gazelle as payment. They trashed the rooms and set fire to two of the beds. They also massacred half a Venusian furry convention that was meeting on the third floor. I comped the survivors their rooms. Hope that’s okay.

On Wednesday, we had a couple dark specters arrive. Didn’t pay, of course, just loitered around haunting the place. I got them exorcised finally. It’s fine now.

Some sort of space princess came two days ago. That’s when things started looking up. She’s pretty. I let her have the top two floors indefinitely. I’m redecorating for her, turning it into a castle.

Don’t worry about the hotel, I’m handling everything.

Your son,

Winky.


Winky’s father put down the letter. “Maybe I should go help him out. Just for a few days.”

“You’re retired,” his wife said. “You promised.”

Her husband noticed the way she was fingering her knife. “Right, right. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

 


Ask a Fictional Character!

I want your questions.

Not for me, though. Every Tuesday, I will open up this blog for one fictional character to answer any questions you have. Write your questions in the comments and I will pick three to have them answer. If you really want someone else’s question answered, click Like on their comment to vote for it.

This is your chance: any questions will do, barring anything that will have government agents coming to my door, of course. It won’t be just me making stuff up either. I will channel these characters in the most literary, non-occult definition of that word.

Ask Fictional characters

Because this is the first time, I wanted to start with someone well known, so next week’s guest character will be Gandalf, from Lord of the Rings. However, for those who might not know him well, here is a quick stats list:

Name: Gandalf (the Grey/White)

Occupation: negotiation and logistics specialist (with magic!)

Age: around 9000 (doesn’t like to tell)

Favorite Color: grey (or white)

Favorite Food: Cherries Jubilee, flambéed

Likes: long walks on any sort of terrain, smoking, short people

Dislikes: fire demons, unspeakable evil, phonies

Write your questions in the comments below and Gandalf will answer, next Tuesday.


Endy and the Office

Endy was a baby enderman. In that way, he was an enderboy, if such a thing existed. Endy didn’t know; he couldn’t even remember his parents, except that they were tall, shimmery, and had purple eyes. Just like him, minus the tall part. But Endy had teleported away from them one night and couldn’t find his way back. By morning, he had sought refuge in an office building and had gotten stuck in an office.

All Endermen can teleport, but for some reason Endy couldn’t teleport through things. He didn’t know if it was because he was young or if there was something wrong with him. This particular office had had the door open but usually it was shut and Endy was trapped. When the professor who worked there was in, the door was always shut and Endy did not dare move while it was open, in case he was spotted.

When he was alone, though, he could do what he wanted. He quickly made friends with the computer mouse.

Endy and the Office

“Let’s go for a ride!” Endy said. He teleported to Mouse’s back

“Okay, here we go!” Mouse said and reared up like a horse and slid over the mouse pad as far as its cord would allow.

“Go further! More! More!” Endy had said the first time. Mouse stopped and his scroll wheel blushed deep red.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m not wireless. If I were, I could anywhere, but I’m stuck here. My dream is to leave and scroll across the world, double-clicking on everything I see.” Mouse was a little weird, but he was a good friend.

Endy tried to make friends with the keyboard too, but that was harder. The keyboard could not talk like Mouse but it could push its keys down and spell things out. Endy couldn’t spell well, but with the help of an elderly electronic dictionary that lived in the top drawer, he soon learned all the keys.

“Hey, this one says End!” he exclaimed. “That’s almost like my name.”

“What does the one above it say?” the dictionary asked.

“It says Home,” Endy said. “Does it work? When I push it, can I go home?”

“Only if you live at the beginning of a line,” the dictionary said, which did not make any sense to Endy.

Endy and the Office

The keyboard was a little gruff and would sometimes put down its Shift key and burst out with a series of *%$#@ expletives if Endy got too rowdy, but it was usually protective. Endy would play around the keys, especially near the End and Home keys, which he liked the best.

At night, Endy slept on top of one of the speakers. It played soft music for him to fall asleep or occasionally, if Endy was feeling homesick, parody songs about his people that it found on Youtube.

Endy and the Office

One day, the professor got up to go to class. He was late and in a hurry. Endy looked up and saw that the door was still partially open.

“The door’s open,” Endy told Mouse. “What should we do?”

There was a furious clacking from the keyboard. It was repeating pushing down it’s uppermost left key.

“What’s it saying?” Mouse asked.

“It’s saying ‘Escape,’” Endy said.

“Go on,” Mouse said. “You deserve it. Go find your family.”

“No, we’ll do it together,” Endy said. He jumped on Mouse’s back. “Come on, try! Try to break free.” Mouse strained and pulled and then there was a pop and his cord popped out the USB slot. They were free.

“Good bye, Keyboard! Good bye, Speakers,” Endy said. “If I can, I’ll come back and say hello again. Good luck.”

Ctrl-C, the keyboard typed. With that, Endy and Mouse rode out the door.


Paper Dolls – Friday Fictioneers

I am super late this week in posting my story for Friday Fictioneers. There are several reasons for this, including being very busy at work, but one main one is that I am finding Friday Fictioneers stories harder and harder to write. It’s not that I can’t think of a story: I could probably sit down and write a hundred stories in a row for any given picture. It’s just that as time goes on, my standards for myself for originality and quality keep increasing and after 113 100-word stories, I feel like everything has been done. That’s one reason why I play around ways of presenting stories: I feel like I’m stagnating or at least I don’t want to. Sometimes a story that I like comes right to me, but usually it doesn’t and these days, I often agonize about it for days. If you do Friday Fictioneers stories, do you ever feel this way? Is it just me?

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Paper Dolls

Snip, snip. A line of identical dolls appeared.

Elise picked up one of the crayons from her father.

“Make them colorful,” he’d said. “Bring them to life.”

She left the first one blank; drew a happy face on the second. The third had clothes and hair.

The tenth took all week. Finally, the light glowed off her perfectly shaded face. Her name was Galatea; Elise had ten pages of history for her. She was Greek. And liked chocolate and rainbows.

Elise put down the pencil and Galatea’s arm floated up as if waving, blown by an imaginary breeze.

Elise smiled.


The Bronze Lady

The Bronze Lady

There was a crunch and the chariot lurched. Another puppy gone. A scream from the owner.

“Watch where you’re going, you maniac!”

“Shut up, shut up!” Boudicca yelled. She maneuvered the chariot further into the dog park. This clearly hadn’t been a good idea.

“Are you insane?”

“I’m trying to give the horses some exercise!” she shouted over her shoulder. There were too many trees here for a good run.

“They’re bronze! Why do they need exercise?” someone yelled.

“Well, I don’t need to kick your arse, but I still might,” she said, pulling back a bronze foot to emphasize her point.

It was no good anyway; the heavy wheels were sinking into the turf. She turned around and retreated.

As she rode back sadly along Bridge Street to her pedestal, cars honking behind her, she sighed. There was no place in this modern world for a bronze woman. It was lonely, being the only one of her kind. If only her friend the Iron Lady were still alive.


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