With this prompt I immediately thought of Garv from my story The Dragon’s Familiar. I had fun imagining the young wizard first meeting his master Bryndis. Who knows, perhaps this will actually make it into the book. Enjoy!
Surveying the giant eagle’s eyrie, Garv was confused. He was sure this was the bird’s nest. The mountainside hollow was littered with bones, feathers, and desiccated carcasses. But, all signs indicated the nest had recently been abandoned.
“Just my luck,” he muttered.
(Just my luck! A meal has come to me, but alas, I’m so full!)
Pulling his hair back out of his face into a rough knot, Garv swiped at the sweat on his brow. Hands, dirty and raw from climbing, smeared earth across his face. The grime punctuated the exhaustion he felt. An onlooker would have mistaken him for a vagabond wandering the wilds. The young wizard was glad no one was there to see him.
But Garv wasn’t alone.
“Why does everything I do fail?” he whined.
(What is he attempting to do? Curious.)
Garv stomped about, kicking up dust and feathers. He plopped to the ground in a huff. Sitting cross-legged, he hunched over, picking at the dirt.
“Is it too much to ask? Can’t something go right for once? I just know I could have convinced the eagle to bond with me. It would have made for a fantastic familiar! That would show everyone.” Garv said to himself.
(A familiar? He’s a wizard?)
Garv puffed angrily.
“I can’t bear the ridicule! I didn’t ask to be the son of Hochein Leistung! Living up to his reputation is impossible! I’m not my father!”
(Hochein Leistung? The Arch Magnus? Dragon’s Bane?!)
Overcome with frustration, Garv sobbed. He didn’t fight the tears. The brief emotional release felt good. Calmer now, he contemplated what to do next.
Something on the ground glimmered, catching Garv’s eye. Brushing feathers aside, he found a flat, iridescent, egg-shaped object. Holding it up to the light, he realized it was an enormous fish scale.
“Look at the size of this! What kind of fish…?”
Garv’s stomach clenched as he broke into a cold sweat. Garv suddenly knew precisely why the eagle had abandoned its nest. The scale wasn’t from a fish. It had come from a dragon.
Slowly getting to his feet, Garv quietly shouldered his pack and made to leave the eyrie.
“Leaving so soon, Wizard?”
Garv froze. He knew dragons could be invisible if they so wished. It had been watching him the whole time.
Just like a dragon. Sneaking and lurking about. I’m a hare caught in a snare! Oh, the treachery!
Closing his eyes, Garv willed himself to turn around.
The sight before him stole his breath away. All along the rim of the hollow above him lay a dragon. A bright aura of coppery light reflected from its scales.
A fire breather! Gods, help me!
The beast’s sprawling body rippled like a wave as it climbed down. Garv’s heart seized as he found himself face to face with the dragon. He was mesmerized by its violet, serpentine eyes. A snip of smoke wafted skyward from its snout.
“Are you truly the spawn of the Dragon Killer?”
Garv inwardly cursed his heritage.
“It’s a harsh legacy. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.”
“Curious. Why do you say this?”
“I’ve found legendary men make poor fathers. He cares little for me or what I want. The Arch Magnus is only interested in molding me into something I’m not.”
“And what is that?”
“A replica,” Garv spat the words out.
“You don’t want to be the most powerful wizard in the world?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
Garv knew better than to lie to a dragon.
“Under the circumstances, I was simply hoping to leave.”
The dragon quietly considered Garv’s request.
“I should eat you, but I’m not hungry. I should kill you, but why should I punish you for your father’s sins? Yet, I’m afraid I can’t let you go. I have my own reputation to consider.”
“I swear never to speak a word about this. The shame I’ll face, returning without a familiar, is a small price to pay for one’s life.”
Smoke billowed from both of the dragon’s nostrils, its eyes blazing brightly. Garv cringed, scrunching his eyes tight. He hoped his incineration would be instantaneous.
“Yes! Familiar! That’s better than killing you.”
The dragon roared and laughed. Garv peeped one eye open.
“You will be my apprentice. I will train you to champion the dragons’ cause.”
“Sorry? What?”
“What better revenge? I’ll transform the Dragon Killer’s offspring into a mighty defender for all of dragonkind!”
“Wait. You want me to do what? I can’t do that!”
“Sure you can.”
“You want me to kill my father?”
“Only if you want to.”
“Of course, I don’t want to kill my father!”
“That’s fine. You only need to convince the Arch Magnus to cease his campaign to eradicate dragons from the world.”
“You don’t understand. My father never listens to me about anything. Besides, I’m rather hopeless when it comes to magic. I’m not a very good wizard. I probably never will be!”
“Oh, I can sense formidable magic within you. It’s buried deep, but it’s there.”
Garv was dumbstruck.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
Coming to his senses, Garv pleaded again to be set free. His father had warned against the lies dragons told.
“Please just let me go back to the guild. I promise to forget everything.”
“Not a chance. You might become as bad as your father, or even worse yet.”
“I won’t. I promise. I’m nothing like my father.”
“Yes, I sense that too. But, it can’t be helped. You’ll have to stay with me, so I can keep an eye on you.”
Panicking, Garv tried desperately to think of a way to dissuade the dragon from its plan.
“Well, what if…what if…I become too powerful and too much like my father? I might kill you!”
“Oh, don’t worry. If that happens, I’ll eat you before your attitude and abilities get out of hand.”
Observing the approach of twilight, Tony smiled. He was an avid, amateur astronomer.
Ah, nothing better than stargazing on a clear, moonless winter night.
Yet, unbeknownst to Tony, something even better was about to happen.
Cold air stung his lungs as he stepped outside. He wished he had remembered to bring a hat. Road salt crunched beneath his feet. Buttoning his coat tightly, hands deep in his pockets, he began his nightly walk around the block.
Rounding the bend, Venus blazed brilliantly, low in the western sky.
Hey there, Gorgeous!
Tony settled into a modest pace.
The twinkling lights from neighborhood windows paled in comparison to nature’s display above. Craning his neck, he greeted each constellation like an old friend.
Glorious! Simply glorious!
On his return, Tony noticed his next-door neighbor peering out suspiciously. Every night the older woman sat sentinel on her porch. Her presence always made him feel like an intruder. He imagined her scolding.
Don’t step on my lawn! Pick up your dog’s poop! Drive carefully! Don’t speed! Whose car is that? Who is this stranger? Why is that man looking at me?
Hoping to convey he was stargazing, Tony scanned the sky with exaggerated gestures like a man playing charades.
No interloper here, Gisele. No one is peering into windows.
Turning his back to his neighbor, Tony looked up across the street. An unfamiliar sight immediately caught his attention.
A long chain of blinking lights stretched across a sizable length of the sky.
What is that?
The lights resembled airplane headlights. Tony figured there were at least forty moving in close formation. But they weren’t moving toward Tony. Instead, they sidled slowly across the sky like a train.
It can’t be airplanes! Those lights are moving together as one object! I need someone else to see this!
Tony fumbled for his phone and called his daughter. Waiting for her to answer, he watched, mesmerized as the leading lights faded. One by one, the lights vanished like the portholes of a turning ocean liner.
“No! No! No! No! Come on! Wait!”
His daughter answered.
“Why are you yelling?”
“Isabel, come out here! Quick! Something’s in the sky. You need to see this!”
“Ok, ok! Give me a second. I’m in my pajamas.”
Isabel didn’t make it outside in time.
“They’re gone,” Tony said.
“What happened? What’s gone?”
Tony explained what he saw.
“Do you think it was a UFO?” Isabel asked.
“I don’t know. It sure wasn’t a plane. It was way too long!”
“How long was it?”
“It was as long as that house’s roof, but far away, up in the sky.”
“That long?!”
“Yeah. I wish you or someone else had seen it.” Tony said dejectedly.
“Wait. Look online to see if anyone else saw it.” Isabel offered.
“Nothing is going to be online yet,” Tony said. “Oh! Maybe, I could ask Mrs. Boulanger if she saw anything? She’s sitting on her porch as usual.”
“No, Dad. That’s a bad idea. You’ll frighten her. I’ll get my phone and google it.”
His daughter ran inside. Tony remained outside, hoping the lights would reappear. A few minutes later, she hurried back.
“Satellites? Guess that’s pretty cool, but it would have been even better if it was a UFO.”
Later that evening, sitting by the fire, Tony reflected. Forty years ago, before the advent of the internet, he would have wholly believed those lights were extraterrestrial.
December 2, 2021: The Pentagon, Washington D.C. – 10:48 PM
“Quick thinking, Colonel.”
“Yes, well, we sure as hell can’t have the whole nation panicking. Damn ETs!”
“Perhaps, tonight’s visitors were new? They certainly didn’t follow the protocols for a visitation. Should I place a call to the galactic ambassador?”
“Yes.”
“Should I file a complaint?”
“No. Don’t need to ruffle any alien feathers or scales. Politely remind them they need to prevent rogue excursions into the atmosphere. We still need to figure out how to disclose contact officially. In the meantime, we need the lead time to concoct a plausible excuse the public will buy.”
A beautiful woman waited alone in a small, dingy apartment. Its only window afforded scarce illumination. Despite twilight fast approaching, Margaret sat still amid a muddle of shadows and the indistinct outlines of the room’s furnishings. She listened quietly to the neighboring inhabitants return home. Noises of life reverberated about her. Above, young children knocked about playing. Murmured greetings echoed from across the hall. Beneath, a couple argued as a baby cried.
Distancing herself from the homey babel, Margaret closed her eyes and focused inward. With body stilled, her mind journeyed out past the town toward the castle walls. What she sought was within the keep itself. Probing the lowest levels, Margaret found what she was looking for. Sprawled upon a dungeon floor lay an unconscious man. The cell was dark, but she didn’t need natural light to see. Dried blood matted his hair, yet still he was breathing. Casting her farsight about, Margaret confirmed the inquisitors had no immediate plans for their prisoner. She sighed with relief despite her frustration.
You’re a damn fool and so am I.
Margaret felt guilty, an emotion she found tedious and useless. Self-assured in her ability to mentor Will, she had foolishly tasked him with a challenge beyond his capabilities.
I should have accompanied him.
Margaret had given in to his pleas to go alone.
“Play cards at the Sooty Dragon over a pint of ale. Practice bending your luck while avoiding notice. Discreetly return the ill-gained money, afterward.”
Those were the instructions. Unfortunately, hubris waylaid Will’s commonsense.
Thought I scared him enough with tales of luck benders believing they’re invincible.
Will played recklessly, winning every deal. Unaware of his latent ability to charm, he instinctively assuaged any suspicions with fair words. But, others were unaffected. They soberly watched as his opponents blithely surrendered their coin. Before long, the guard was called.
This audacious use of luck bending is dangerous. It might kill you, Will!
She shuttered recalling stories of spells and potions inquisitors plied to extract information. The Baron would be keen to discover any other rogue wielders of magic within his domain.
Suddenly, Margaret became aware of a familiar presence entering the building below. It was Will’s roommate. With Will’s arrest, she had quite forgotten about Tom. Childhood friends, both men had left behind an impoverished existence to seek better fortunes. They landed work in the Baron’s coal mine. Margaret came across them a month ago at the Sooty Dragon. Sensing Will’s abilities, she started a conversation. Unlike his friend, Tom was unreadable. Nevertheless, she was certain he possessed no magical gifts. Tom distrusted Margaret. He would correctly lay blame for Will’s imprisonment at her feet.
Tom, it’s high time we cleared the air between us. Will is going to need your help which means I’m going to need it too.
Margaret heard the scuff of dirty boots pause in front of the door and the scrape of a key in the keyhole. She opened her eyes and waited.
Don’t worry! I plan to continue! More to come soon.
I confess I have been avoiding work on the unfinished first draft of my science fiction novel, Jupiter’s Embrace. In an attempt to get the creative process going again, I’m using characters from Jupiter’s Embrace to respond to some flash fiction writing prompts.
This prompt is from The New UnOfficial, On-line, Writer’s Guild. The prompt used is OLW # 229 Love, Dad. (I used the weekly prompt at the bottom of the page called: almost never prayed.)
Swallowing a sleeping pill, Johnny set no alarm, hoping for dreamless oblivion. His first time at the helm was disastrous. The smuggled goods were delivered, but there had been an unexpected complication. Embarrassingly, inexperience and indecisiveness nearly led to failure.
Bleep!
The comm call triggered the dreaded dream.
Eight-years-old, bewildered, awaken by yelling, he climbed from bed. Edging toward sounds of struggle, suddenly, a hand covered his mouth, stifling a yelp. His older brother carried him away from the commotion.
Johnny focused on his older brother’s face, trying to understand. Hiding, they waited. Demands and protests grew louder. Threats were made.
“Rike..”
“Shh! Bad guys broke in wanting money. Mom and Dad are taking care of it.”
Trembling, Johnny held onto his brother and prayed. The struggle grew desperate. Blasters fired. Riker pushed him threw the bedroom window.
“Run! I’m right behind.”
Bleep!
Drenched in sweat, heart-racing, Johnny awoke with a start. He swore. Standing up, he instinctually gazed out the porthole into the blackness of space. Swiping the comm open, he was surprised to see his brother-in-law. His face was serious; worried.
“Sean?”
“Johnny!”
“Amelia? Jack? They ok?”
“Yes. But, Riker. He’s in Sol Corp custody. There’s been a military tribunal. Riker’s been convicted of being an alien, Rangari spy! Sentence is life on Jupiter!”
Johnny broke into a cold sweat and tried to swallow the taste of bile from his mouth. He realized for the first time in twenty years, he was praying.
If intrigued and seeking more, click the link below to the first two chapters of the story.
The Saga of Jockular, the Swamp Barbarian and George the Dishwasher Continues!
George sat at his kitchen table, head resting on his hands, staring at the butterfly he had just drawn. He waited impatiently, feet bouncing. It had been a week since his sketch of Jockular, his LARPing character, had come to life.
My life was boring! Can’t say that anymore. What the fuck is happening? This shit is crazy! Amazing! But, insanely crazy!
The shock had worn off. But, his body refused to relax. Instead, it continually idled, awaiting the next adrenaline rush. He knew he wasn’t hallucinating. Yet, he still had no explanations.
Wonder why the timing is so inconsistent.
George had brought other things into existence; nothing monstrous as Jockular requested. He had been exceedingly judicious with his choice of subjects. First an apple, then a rose, followed by a ham and cheese sandwich and a housefly, all eventually became reality. He had googled butterflies, searching for a picture of a type common to this area. George selected the spring azure. Its periwinkle, blue wings with traces of purple had enchanted him. Peering closer, he sensed all the waiting was about to pay off. The monochrome sketch, still only shades of grey, appeared to shimmer. The perspective seemed deeper, stretched.
Everything was quickly settled into the new apartment. Qochata’s lifestyle was simple; uncluttered. He changed locations often to avoid the inevitable questions.
“How do you do it? You haven’t age a day. I must have your secret.”
Qochata would smile, demurely attributing his perpetual youth to good genes and a healthy lifestyle.
“Abuela and Abuelo, both past one hundred, still run our family farm. They work hard, rest well and eat humble home cooking.”
The lie never worked. Once someone remarked his agelessness, the wary looks and whispers began. He’d soon moved on.
His new, small studio in a historic, Mexico City building came furnished. He required only a bed, a nightstand, a comfortable chair and a lamp for late night reading. A large brass bird cage hung from the ceiling, empty with the door ajar. Each wall was entirely lined with crowded, newly installed bookshelves. The numerous books, his sole material burden, formed towering piles about the room. The kitchen table held a terrarium; home to a red coffee snake. Qochata reached in and stroked the reptile.
“Ah, Café. It’s been centuries since we’ve been to Mexico City.”
A cawing, keel-billed toucan flew in and perched upon Qochata’s shoulder.
“Yes, Pluma. I was waiting for you to return before beginning.”
With each relocation, Qochata felt at home, only after preparing his favorite dish; a sweet corn cake made with masa harina. Centuries ago, he had travelled far, working his magic to acquire the maize plant for the Mexica people. His patronage had helped humans conquer famine. Qochata taught the Mexica to live peacefully in magnificent cities filled with art, music and scholarship. It had been a happy time.
“Now let’s begin.”
Qochata gathered ingredients. He set out butter to soften and began mixing together cornmeal, masa harina, sugar, salt and baking powder. Shucking ears of corn, he carefully cut off tender kernels to add to his mixture.
“Now, for the cream.”
Qochata opened the refrigerator. Moving items about, he saw no heavy cream or milk. Frowning, Qochata rummaged about the cabinets.
“Mierda! No condensed milk either. Don’t worry my pets. There’s a corner market nearby.”
Grabbing keys and his wallet, Qochata donned a white, felt, stetson. Encircling the hat was a silver band, styled as a rattlesnake, holding a solitary eagle feather.
“Be right back.”
Qochata crossed the street to the market. Stopping in front, he regarded the placard above the entrance.
Tchondee’s Shop.
The sign depicted the caricature of a jaguar smugly sipping espresso, smoking a cigar. Hesitating, Qochata glowered at the sign. He distinctly disliked jaguars.
Sneaky, brutish cats! Lazing about or devouring the weak.
Bells jangled as he entered. The store was split in two. The right side contained shelves of groceries with a small refrigerated section along the back wall. The other half was dedicated to a large espresso bar. Lining the wall, behind the counter, was a selection of cigars, loose tobacco, cigarettes and pipes. The individuals working behind the counter greeted Qochata warmly. Noticing the comfortable, leather chairs set out for patrons to lounge in as they enjoyed a smoke or cup of coffee, he decided to sample the espresso.
“A solo espresso, por favor.”
“Coming right up, señor.”
Settling down in a chair, Qochata flipped through an abandoned newspaper. A barista approached with a demitasse and saucer.
“Your solo. Enjoy.”
“Gracias.”
Qochata cupped his hand over the tiny cup, feeling the steam tickle his hand. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled deeply. Murmuring approval, he slurped his espresso. The rich flavor was smoothly bold with hints of caramel and brown sugar. He swallowed, savoring the rush of smokey, bitterness. The espresso was exquisite.
“Excuse me? Where do you source your beans?”
“The owner is a connoisseur of coffee. He owns a plantation in Chiapas. He cultivates new varieties and tinkers with the processing and roast.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes, I find his work with tobacco in San Andreas even more fascinating. I’ve never smoked anything close to the tobacco he imports from his own properties.”
“I would very like to meet with him. Is your boss in?”
“Yes, he’s out back. One moment.”
Qochata finished his espresso. He walked about inspecting the hanging photographs. They were all pictures of Mexican soldiers and scenes from famous battles.
He seems to be a military buff as well.
Qochata hated conflict.
Gazing out the window, waiting, he heard someone approach from behind.
“Señor, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tchondee. Welcome!”
Qochata turned around to make his introduction. Both men’s smiles melted as their eyes locked in recognition. No handshake was made. They stood still, sizing one another up. Qochata spoke first.
“Thought you were in Afghanistan or Syria nowadays.”
“I was. But, with everything winding down, it’s just a dull routine now. I had a hankering for home.”
“Yes, me as well.”
“I see. Espresso is delicious isn’t it? You enjoyed it?”
“I suppose. I really must go. I was looking for heavy cream. I came to the wrong place.”
Qochata made to pay his bill and leave.
“What name are going by now?”
“Qochata.” he grimaced embarrassingly.
“Ha. White man, huh? Fitting.”
“As is Tchondee, brother. You always enjoyed tobacco with its smoke and death.”
Tchondee simpered, holding his hands out with a shrug.
“Look, Quetzalcoatl. It needn’t be awkward. The days of importance and power are over for both of us.”
“Perhaps, but you still relish stirring up trouble. My people have suffered terribly.”
“How long are you going to hold that over me? I am what I am. However, I’ve been trying to broaden my perspective.”
“Ha! That’s rich! What? Focusing on more subtle ways to kill? Cancer, addiction?”
“You wound me, brother.”
“As I said, I was just in need of a carton of cream.”
Qochata turned away, reaching for his wallet.
“Yes, sweet corn cake. I know.”
Qochata stopping, turned to watch Tchondee retrieve a carton of heavy cream. He held it out to Qochata.
“Here. It’s free, as is the espresso.”
Qochata looked down at the offering, deliberating. A few seconds passed and he took the carton.
“It was a fair fight, until you tricked me.”
“Yes. It was.”
“Your actions have been utterly reprehensible for an age now. What’s your angle? Should I move on?”
“It’s tiring always being evil. Guess, I’m feeling more neutral these days.”
“Neutral? Interesting. What about your new fascination with agriculture? You could use your talent for something actually helpful. Humans take readily to your influence. They’re destroying themselves and this world with your beloved smoke, smog and pollution.”
“Look. I don’t want this fifth age to end. We could see what we can do to save it.”
“Our days of being heroes are over.”
“There’s a bit of juice still left.”
Qochata considered his brother’s words. He walked to the door and stopped.
“Tezcatlipoca, the sweet corn cake will be ready in about an hour. My apartment is across the street. Number 282. Bring coffee and cigars. And you can bring Colmillos, provided he doesn’t try to eat my toucan.”
Tchondee smiled, chuckling to himself, as Qochata walked out.
George’s life was literally an endless, boring routine of wash, rinse, and dry. He was dishwasher at a local restaurant.
“George! Running low on plates again!”
Perhaps, Mr. Witherson, if you shelled out some money to buy more plates, we wouldn’t be constantly running out on a busy Friday night.
“Right away, Sir!”
His current job at “Rodeo Ribs” was the latest in a long line of menial gigs. Never lasting, he either quit or was fired within a couple of months.
This job rots. My hands are perpetually pruned. I leave every night drenched down to my underwear and I smell like an old sponge.
Despite being intelligent, college was a disaster. Failure to focus, when disinterested, was a constant. George dropped out after a semester. Retrieving a rack of dishes, he climbed upstairs.
And who puts the dish sink in the basement of a restaurant?
George wasn’t completely devoid of ambition, however. He had two passions; his art and role-playing. Drawing was intimately connected to creating fantasy characters to play. He enjoyed putting his imagination on paper. Recently, he discovered LARPing. Now, his entire world revolved around it. When live action role-playing, he felt authentic and truly alive. His alter-ego was a bold, brawny, swamp barbarian named, “Jockular of the Murky Fens.” His character wasn’t the brightest, but compensated for this flaw with stupendous strength. The barbarian’s legendary battle-rage filled even his most formidable opponents with dread.
“George, I said plates!”
“I’m working on it, Mr. Witherson.”
George sputtered and skidded back through the hectic kitchen to the top of the stairs. Rushing, he nearly fell on the way down.
Really need some non-slip shoes or I’m gonna kill myself.
George whistled happily, daydreaming about his upcoming weekend. His LARP group was hosting this month’s regional adventure weekend. It was called, “Taming the Titan’s Tempest!”
Two whole days of play. Can’t wait to show off the new armor I’ve constructed. Good chance of winning MVP, if I effectively deliver those new jokes and taunts I’ve been rehearsing.
His barbarian’s name was a play on the word, “jocular”. Feeling particularly clever, George enjoyed explaining the name’s pronunciation accentuated the character’s ubiquitous laughter and prodigious sense of humor. Jockular gleefully sought any opportunity to taunt his adversaries with gruesome puns foreboding impending doom. George also never forgot to mention the spelling of his character’s name alluded to the barbarian’s athletic prowess.
Look at all these dishes! Jockularwould never tolerate having to while away the time scrubbing at dirt and grime like some kitchen wench. Ha! No need! He eats with his fingers!
“George? Mr. Witherson is going to have a coronary. You have those plates yet?” one of the waitresses called down.
“Coming!”
Hefting a load of fresh plates, George hurried to deliver them. Taking the stairs two at a time, he failed to make proper contact with the last stair.
“Aaugh!”
He fell with a tumultuous clatter. Plates shattered everywhere as George landed with a sickening pop on the basement floor.
“Eeeyouch!”
“George?! Are you ok?”
The waitress clamored down.
“Ow, ow, ow!”
George heard Mr. Witherson yelling upstairs.
“What was that noise? Was that plates breaking?”
George racked with pain, ignored the shouting above.
“Damn! Oh, God! Oh, God!”
“Your forehead’s bleeding!” the waitress exclaimed.
“It is?”
George swiped at his face. His hand came down slick with blood. Scrambling to get up, his right foot erupted with an agonizing explosion of pain. He crumbled to the floor and threw up.
“Somebody help! George is hurt bad!”
Mr. Witherson begrudgingly allowed a busboy to drive George to the emergency room. An x-ray confirmed his ankle was broken. George was sent home, sulking with a cast and a bottle of prescription painkillers.
Once home, beginning to feel the dull throb grow, George defeatedly collapsed on the couch. Reading the instructions on the prescription container, he tossed it on the cluttered coffee table in disgust.
Ugh. Next pill in about four hours.
Rummaging about George found his sketch pad. Gingerly propping his foot up, he began to draw.
Thank God, I didn’t break my hand. I’d die without being able to draw.
As the charcoal pencil danced across the paper, a figure gradually emerged. George sketched a burly man clad in furs, wearing a scaly, green, armored breastplate. Elk antlers protruded dramatically from either side of the barbarian’s helm. His face was ringed with a golden mane of unruly blonde hair. George smiled down at the image he had created of Jockular blithely, brandishing a bloodied, double-bladed battle-axe. Gradually, he retuned to thinking about this weekend and all the fun he was going to miss. George frowned.
Damn! Whole weekend is ruined!
Disgusted, George threw the notepad and pencil across the room. The sketchbook skidded to a stop just outside the kitchen. Breathing heavily in anger, he closed his eyes, listening to the grating sound of his pencil roll across the linoleum.
Ugh! I hate my life!
Lying still, feeling sorry for himself, George heard something. It was the sound of rustling paper. Quietly listening, attempting to identify the source, he was startled by a loud crash from the kitchen. His foot adamantly protested as he sat up quickly.
What the…?
Glass shattered.
“Dragon’s Piss!” someone whispered loudly.
Alarmed, George painfully hobbled toward the kitchen, arming himself with a pillow. Reluctantly, he edged closer to the muffled commotion in the next room. Pausing, just around the corner, panic took over. He froze.
Oh, God! Oh God! Come on George! You need to look!
He managed to peep, ever so slightly, into the other room. He was instantly paralyzed again by the sight. In the middle of his kitchen was an unnaturally large beast, back turned to George, doubled over, picking up the shards of glass from a broken pickle jar. The refrigerator door was glaring, wide open. Food littered the countertop. Initially, mistaking the figure for an animal, he realized it was a man dressed entirely in an assortment of furs. Regaining control of his body, George stepped backwards, placing the entirety of his weight on his bad ankle.
Eeeeeyy.” he squealed involuntarily.
The man spun around.
“What ar ya doin on yar feet? Ya’r suppose to be restin!”
Disregarding his pain, George skittered backwards, bumped against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. This hulking man standing before him was exactly how he imagined Jockular. The fur, the long hair, the antlered helm, even the green, dragon scale breastplate; it was all there. It was as if Jockular had climbed straight out of George’s drawing. The man sighed with exasperation.
“Now, I was fixin’ to whip ya up a thing, a healin’ thing. Does me ever so much good when I find meself feelin battered and bruised from battle. Trust me! It’ll work ya wonders. Ya’ll be on yar feet in no time.”
The stranger folded his arms and laughed loud and long. George stood stock-still, gawking. Catching George completely off guard, the huge man lunged forward, his hands outstretched.
“AHh!”
Effortlessly, he plucked George up off of the floor and schlepped him back into the living room.
“Quit yar belly achin’ lad.”
Depositing him onto the couch with care, the giant stuffed a pillow gently underneath his injured foot. Grasping a nearby blanket, the stranger then clumsily tucked it around George.
“Thar! Snug as a bugbear.”
He chortled to himself, striding back to the kitchen. Stopping abruptly, the behemoth bent down.
“Oh. Ya dropped this.”
Holding up George’s sketch pad and pencil, he walked back over.
“Har’s yar quill n parchment. Oooh! That quill looks magical. Gives me the heebie-jeebies just touchin’ it. Mind ya, I ain’t afraid. Seem to remember haring of things such as this. Is it a quill of eternal ink?”
George lay staring up, eyes wide as saucers. He was in shock. Receiving no response, George’s new and unexpected caretaker returned to the kitchen.
“Ya’v cared for me many a times, Georgie. My turn to return the favor. I don’t spect ya’ll thank me none too soon tho. This ol’ shaman’s recipe, me Mam taught me, tastes of pig shit.”
The man snorted and guffawed as he returned to the kitchen.
Coming to his senses with the giant out of view, George dared to quietly flip his sketch pad back to the page he been working on.
The sketch was gone.
The page was completely blank.
“Balderdash! Ya seem to lack some of the necessary ingredients. Not to worry! I’ll forage about. Shouldn’t be hard findin’ some goat snot. Course, now that I think on it, Mam did say I can always use me own.”
“Jockular?” George whispered to himself.
Jockilar leaned his head suddenly back into the room.
“Oh! Georgie! When ya’r feelin’ better, perchance ya’d draw me some trolls er goblins to practice me fightin’ moves with. Whatcha ya think?”
This story is set in India. Below are definitions for the Hindi words you’ll find used in the story.
Mātā – mama.
Ajee! – Good gracious! Good Heavens!
Priya – Nakul’s deceased, older sister.
Vaah! – Wow!
Are nahin – Oh no!
Ḵẖudā – diety, god, divinity
Lēnēvālā – taker
Monsoon season dominated the countryside. A seemingly endless storm ebbed and waned, day to day, week to week and now month to month. Torrential rains submerged much of the landscape surrounding the village, its people patiently enduring this life-giving deluge.
From an outlying house, a restless boy stared out a doorway. Nakul was aching to venture outside. He was ever vigilant, scanning above for signs of any approaching respite in precipitation. The especially prolonged, heavy, soaking rain, the day began with, had miraculously ceased and a burgeoning patch of blue sky emerged high up in the sky.
“Mātā! Mātā!”
“What is it Nakul?”
“The rain has stopped. I’m going out. I’ll stay close. I want to see how fat the stream is with rainwater.”
“Stay out of the stream, Nakul! It will be swift and the flooding disrupts the wildlife.”
“Yes, Mātā.”
“Nakul! Your walking stick. In case of snakes. Remember, Priya. Ajee!.”
“Yes, Mātā. I remember.”
Nakul didn’t fear snakes, even the poisonous ones. He understood his mother’s dread, but he had never known his older sister. She died before he was born.
Nakul’s favorite tree grew along the stream. He was surprised by the extent of the flooding. The familiar scene was strange and compelling. No longer along the banks, it sat within this new, swollen river.
“Vaah!” he exclaimed.
Nakul yearned to climb up and survey everything.
Reluctant to disobey his mother, the water posed a problem. He gave the situation some thought. Only a few steps would bring him to the trunk. Swishing the stick back and forth repeatedly, he probed the water. Nakul cautiously waded in. The water was just past his knees. Emboldened, he sloshed quickly to the tree and secured the stick into the submersed earth. His conscience nagged. Keen to leave the dangerous water, he blindly grabbed the lowest branch to pull himself up.
Straight away, he noted a difference. Expecting a rough, unyielding surface, his grasp instead sunk into something softer. The branch roiled. Pain lanced Nakul’s hand, jarring fingers, wrist and arm like an electrical shock. Releasing, pushing away, he stumbled backwards falling with a splash. Gaping upwards stupidly, Nakul recognized the markings of a king cobra. Dumbfounded, he peered down at two marks glistening like vibrant ruby pendants.
Finding his feet, Nakul ran. He sprinted. Adrenaline quicken his breath, his heartbeat and supercharged muscles. His frantic struggle accelerated the spread of venom throughout his body. His vision blurred and waves of dizziness disoriented him. Unbeknownst to Nakul, he was racing further away from his village.
“Are nahin! Help! Somebody!”
Nakul struggled to breath.
He collapsed to the damp ground in pain.
He tried to rise, but his limbs felt stiff and uncoordinated.
“someone…help…anyone”
Nakul lay gasping, growing colder, knowing he was dying.
Moment bled slowing into moment.
He was lost and alone.
As he began to drift away from the pain, a voice shouted.
I’M COMING! DON’T GIVE UP!
Nakul searched feebly, seeing no one. But, an ember of hope flickered brighter.
“help”
He fought to stay awake, alive.
I’m here.
The voice sounded close.
“where?”
Here. Next to you.
Nakul turned his head to vaguely see an old, graying mongoose. Nakul understood animals didn’t speak, but he was young enough to accept this current incongruence with reality.
“A cobra bit me.”
I smell it.
“Mongoose. I’m dying.”
No. You are different. I can help. Accept my help. I am old with little time left. I will give you what I no longer need. You could demand it; take it from me, but I see you are unaware of what you are. I gift it to you. Take it.
“i …don’t know what you’re talking about…i don’t understand”
You are out of time. Let me help you.
“how…how can you help”
Trust me.
“ok.”
An ever so sight pain pinched Nakul. The little beast had bit his wounded hand. Now, a warm itchiness oscillated up his arm.
He felt the mongoose’s nip only added insult to injury.
Nakul wondered if the mongoose was hungry.
The thought was absurd.
“why did you bite me?”
Giving you something only a mongoose possesses…so you may live.
Nakul felt a sweat break out. A buzzing in his ears intensified, drowning out all other sounds. He felt as if his very blood was boiling within. Somehow, he knew a battle was raging and his side was winning.
Time passed and finally all was still and silent.
The pain was gone.
“I feel better. I don’t understand?”
A mongoose is immune to snake venom. Now, you are too.
“But, how?”
Most men don’t have the speech and the ability to assume power from us. To us you are Ḵẖudā. Your kind calls you Lēnēvālā.
Nakul sat up. Observing his hand, the wound appeared now only as a bite from something non-poisonous like the checkered keelback snake. Gazing up, he startled seeing the mongoose lying prone with labored breathing.
“What’s wrong!?”
I too… change. You have given… in return… a part of yourself.
Nakul sat by the mongoose gently stroking its fur, watching in disbelief as glossy, dark brown hair replaced its grey, grizzled appearance. Suddenly, the mongoose was up. It stretched and bounced around.
This is a tremendous boon! Youth returns! You have given me some of your natural longevity.
Nakul pondered this. He knew mongoose typically lived a fraction of the time a person might.
“Am I going to die now?”
Hmm, I need a good look at you.
The mongoose jumped around Nakul sniffing. Satisfied with his inspection, he peered up at in Nakul.
You smell the same to me. Humans live forever to a creature such as me.
But, something else felt different to Nakul. Watching the mongoose catch and tear apart a large beetle with sharp canines, he realized what was different. Feeling inside his mouth, he confirmed it was full of sharp, pointy, jagged, canine teeth.
In honor of the co-creator of Dungeons & Dragons, Gary Gygax. Most gamers try to do something special on July 27th, Gary’s birthday. How does one throw a party for the late, original, consummate dungeon master? Gather together with fellow RPG geeks and dive deep into an adventure for the entire day! Well..that’s what I did. The game has evolved over the years with several edition. I still prefer AD&D, first edition. This year my DM decided to run a later edition module. I created a green–ancestry, dragonbornpaladin to play, which was really going out of my comfort zone. Interestingly, this adventure was recently finished posthumously for Gygax by his two sons, who used notes he made, but never got around to using.
My penchant is to play wizards, magic-users, druids, illusionists or any other arcane force weilding character. Consequently, I definitely had wizards and dragons on my mind when I decided to put out a piece of flash fiction inspired by my love of Dungeons & Dragons.
The resulting 1500 word (just small enough for some to still classify as flash fiction) story has been rattling around in my head for months. The characters Garv, Bryndis and Amin feature prominently in a fantasy book I’m developing. The scene is from deep within the middle of the plot. So…treat it like a trailer for a movie.
Music also fuels my imagination. I recommend listening to “Fix You” (The cover of the Coldplay song.) by Danny Olson with Jadelyn.
I must have replayed this hundreds of times while visualizing the scene in this story when dragon fire starts flying!!!
Please follow the link below to read the story, “The Dragon Eyrie”.
Mythos Creative Writing 