Tag: fantasy

The Flower Goddess

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In her retirement, the Flower Goddess fills her days by arranging the stones in her Zen garden.
“Where are the flowers?” asks a visiting priest.
“In my memory,” she says, and she picks up the rake.
Concentric circles, weaving patterns. Lines without end.
Her sister, the former Goddess of Dance, sits on a bench and watches the sand.
“In my youth, I would have found inspiration from this,” she said. “But instead of useless motion, I merely observe and appreciate the stillness.”
The Flower Goddess nods, and summons afternoon tea.
She plucks hibiscus blooms from memory to boil in it.

Pocket watch

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For his three hundredth birthday, Papa Smurf wanted a pocket watch.
So, the Smurfs stole Gargamel’s pocket watch and brought it to him.
“Not only will this not fit in my pocket, but it still has the inscription from Gargamel’s mother in it,” he grumbled.
As smart as Brainy Smurf was, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the delicate engineering necessary to make a pocket watch, and he went mad from the attempt.
The potion needed to cure him required five tongues of humans.
The tiny blue creatures armed themselves with scimitars and bags, and headed to the village.

The Mage’s Toothache

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It was the ancient mage’s last tooth. And it hurt like hell.
The toothache remedy potion bottle was empty, and all of the pain spells had verbal components.
His apprentice, not yet skilled in the art of Relief enchantments, was drunk at the pub when a party of adventurers overheard him complaining to the bartender.
“We can raid the tower and free this town of evil,” whispered the paladin.
The cleric and thief agreed, and made their way up the mountain.
Unfortunately for them, the mage’s wands were all point-and-shoot.
He left the cleric alive long enough to heal him.

Moonbeam Harvest

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The moonbeams cover the forest floor, and we gather the magic sparkles and put them into glass jars.
We elves have been gathering for centuries. The deep, rich forests that produce the best moonbeams may be gone, but there’s plenty of trees left in hard-to-reach places to harvest under.
Besides, we’re more efficient at refining moonbeams now. It only takes ten jars of sparkles to fill a Moonbeam Bomb where it used to require thousands.
My water-basin swirls, and a message arrives from Germany. Another ancient forest is in danger from developers.
Not for long. Send a bomb to Berlin.

Cupid’s Arrows

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That’s not a tattoo on my shoulder.
It’s a scar.
Damn Cupid got his arrows mixed up with hunting arrows.
I saw my true love, worked up my courage, and took an arrow in the chest.
He missed my heart, thankfully.
Unlike my true love. She was dead within a second.
But then, we both were hit with hunting arrows, not with Cupid’s.
Were we hit by Cupid’s arrows, I’d believe it.
Maybe it was just the heat of the moment.
Cupid apologized at the funeral, offered to hit us again with the right arrows.
“What’s the point?” I said.

The Apples

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As I walk along the path to the castle, the trees bend down and offer me some apples.
“They are juicy and ripe,” say the trees. “We’d hate for them to go to waste.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m allergic to apples.”
Insulted, the trees turn their backs to the path.
“I could juggle them if you’d like,” I say.
The trees are shocked. “How would you like it if we asked if we could juggle your babies?” they ask.
“But you offered to let me eat them,” I said.
“That’s different,” they say, and I walk in uncomfortable silence.

The Magical Shoes

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The shoes! Magical talking shoes!
We agree they’re worth a share of treasure.
“We are worth two!” cry the shoes.
“Hold your tongues!” I say. “You don’t have a say in this matter.”
As each member of our group examined them, they squeaked.
“Dwarf feet stink! Worse than the goblin you rescued me from!”
“Warriors jump too much!”
“Priests are boring!”
And our mage didn’t like them.
“They lack curly points,” he said.
“We’ll sell them?” said the dwarf.
We agreed.
“No!” protested the shoes.
Heading out of the dungeon, we were ambushed by goblins.
The shoes screamed. “Not again!”

Two Hundred Grapes

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She waved a bony hand over the glass, refilling it with wine.
The demon she’d summoned was a gossip. He’d have told her anything, even without the wine.
“I just enjoy the company,” he said. “But the wine helps.”
“Tell me more,” says the witch. “Please,” she added.
“There’s nothing more to say,” says the demon. His red, scaly hand wraps its talons around the glass, raises it to black lips over yellowed fangs, and he sips. “What’s new with you?”
She nodded, broke the circle around his chair with a heel, and they had a nice quiet evening together.

When you wish upon a shotgun

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I was rubbing the barrel of an old shotgun when a genie came out of it.
“Shouldn’t you be in a lamp or a bottle?” I asked.
“I was drunk,” he said.
He’s offered me three wishes, but would you accept wishes from a genie who can’t find a decent lamp to live in?
Especially one who’s a drunk.
And, boy, does this genie drink.
“I thought you cleaned the shotgun,” he slurs. “Man does this place stink!”
“You’re not in the shotgun,” I say. “You’re up my dog’s ass.”
So, once again, I’ll trade you for that monkey’s paw.

Mr. Fist Around My Throat

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My throat hurts.
It feels like someone clenched a fist around it.
But you can’t see anyone with a fist on my throat.
Maybe it’s my old imaginary friend.
His name was Mr. Fist Around My Throat.
Looking back, he wasn’t much of an imaginary friend. He was more of an imaginary bully. And he beat the crap out of me day and night.
I got even with him, though. I took medicine which stopped my imagining him, and he vanished.
Now he’s back.
Are these the right pills?
I knew I should have drilled a hole in my head.