Tag: fantasy

The Talking Sword

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The swordsman tested all the swords in the store, but when he picked up the talking sword, he was greatly impressed.
“I have no equal, no opponent can defeat me,” it said.
The fighter took a few lunges and swings.
Good balance, nice edge.
I like this sword.
He bought it.
Three days later, the swordsman was crawling out of a cave, bloodied and battered, sword in hand.
“They were kobolds, Sword,” he groaned. “I could beat them barehanded.”
“My expertise is in debate, not combat,” said the sword.
It swore as it clattered against the rocks in the cave.

The Dragon Next Door

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My oven is filthy.
It is covered with grime.
But I do not have anything to clean it.
So, I call the dragon who lives next door.
She sticks her head in the window and looks at the oven.
“Disgusting!” she growls.
She takes a deep breath and blows fire all over my kitchen, burning the countertops and toaster and my favorite oven mitts.
“I am so sorry,” she says. “I should have been more careful.”
I hop on her back and we fly to a restaurant, order burgers and shakes, and go hunting for elephants for her to eat.

Mushrooms

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Deep in the forests of North Umberland, a beam of sunshine falls upon a circle of mushrooms on which the Council Of Elder Faeries sit.
Stroking his long white beard, Gonfall the Elder spoke first. “For our first order of business, can we agree that we need to buy chairs and a conference table?” he said.
The other elves agreed. “These toadstools are always damp,” said Glistensparkle. “Going around with wet spots on our pants sucks.”
“And Pollygoogle is allergic,” mumbled Tinkerwhiskers. “Swells up like a peach.”
The Council moved to adjourn, and they flew off to the furniture store.

The Butterfly

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I told Lucy not to get a tattoo, but she did.
It’s a pink butterfly on her ankle.
Sometimes, it is on her right ankle. Other times, her left.
I’ve watched her sleep and the butterfly flapping around her bedroom.
When she wakes up, it lands and melts into her skin.
Today, it’s on her wrist.
“I’m thinking about getting another,” she says.
I told her not to, but she did.
Another butterfly. Blue this time.
They fly together at night, circling.
I rub my arm, where the flaming skull once was.
Sure, laser-removal surgery worked.
But it still burns.

The Lighter

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Down in the dungeon, the witch stirs up a boiling cauldron full of jokes
“We stir to keep the lighter jokes from floating to the top and staying there,” says Hildegard the Wicked. “Only when the jokes are finished do we skim them from the top.”
I’ve asked her what she puts in the pot to make the jokes, but she never reveals her secret.
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Just drink the potions I give you and be happy with it.”
Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t be happy with it.
Funny, yes. But not happy.

The Shadowcat

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Three rings in the wizard’s nose.
A glass eye, solid blue.
No hair at all. Not even eyebrows.
He tells me of the legedary Shadowcat, a spirit in his library.
Only he can touch the books. If someone else enters the library, the Shadowcat strikes.
Instant death.
“Never go in there,” he says.
I nod.
“Can you make a Greyhawk Slinger?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“You’re hired,” he says, and I am now the butler to the most powerful archmage in the land.
He hands me a book. “Mind putting this back in the library?”
I laugh.
He smiles.

Corn Dogs

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There’s nothing quite like a fresh hand-dipped corn dog at the county fair.
These aren’t the pre-processed ones you get at the state fair or the grocery store.
You can watch as they pull a hot dog out of the kettle, spear it with a stick, dip it in the batter, and dangle it in the hot oil.
Look behind the curtain, and you’ll see the batter-maid milking a batter-cow into pails, hot dogs picked straight from a hot dog tree, and the oil pumped straight from the Great Vegetable Oil River.
As I said, as fresh as can be.

And back again

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The princess needed to smuggle gold from one castle to the other without thieves knowing.
Ruplestiltskin was long banished into nothingness, but his spinning-wheel remained.
So, she spun the wheel backwards, turning gold into straw.
She sent out the straw with farmers, and then the princess with her spinning wheel afterwards.
Brilliant, she thought.
The next day, the carts were loaded up with the straw and sent out.
Soon after, the princess began her journey.
Midway there, she found that bandits had struck the caravan, bodies and straw scattered in all directions.
She wept for the gold, and started gathering.

Unicorns

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I hate unicorns.
I especially hate the ones that leave a trail of sparkles everywhere they go.
Sparkles turn to soggy ash after a while.
You see the sparkly herd of unicorns prancing and running, but I have to deal with the disgusting grey piles they leave behind.
Speaking of piles, did you know that unicorns do not shit rainbows?
If you don’t know what they shit, then you don’t want to know.
Just sit there in your fantasy bubble with unicorns and rainbows and sparkles.
One day, you’ll get gored through the chest, and you’ll finally see the truth.

Mr. Twelve

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On either end of the table, Mister Midnight sat.
One was a man in a cloak with a silver hourglass.
The other wore a zoot guit, tapping a silver cane.
Neither worked with The League Of Heroes, so they weren’t on the registry that prevents these situations.
Their lawyers drafted up an agreement, trying to avoid a embarrassing superhero fight.
“What if neither of you were Mister Midnight?” they suggested. “You be The Dark Hourglass, and you’re After Hours.”
The heroes thought, smiled, and shook hands.
The lawyers got the papers signed and returned to The League of Evil headquarters.