Flash Fiction: Dangers of Absentmindedly Doodling

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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, “Jockilur 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. Jockilur 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! Jockilur would 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 Jockilur 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 Jockilur. The fur, the long hair, the antlered helm, even the green, dragon scale breastplate; it was all there. It was as if Jockilur 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.”

“Jockilur?” 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?”

George fainted dead away. 

“Ah, lad’s all plum tuckered out.”


Word Count: 1500

Courtesy of Prompt Titled: Absentmindedly

By THESOLITARYWORDSMITH at PROMPTUARIUM.

Great sources for writing prompts! Please go visit and subscribe to their website!

Flash Fiction: Need a Hand?

This is my third piece featuring Nakul, who wields the ability to take on traits from nearby animals and use them. There is a cost though.

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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.

“Look you gave me your teeth too!”


Word Count: 1000.

Courtesy of Prompt Titled: Need a Hand?

By THESOLITARYWORDSMITH at PROMPTUARIUM.

Great sources for writing prompts! Please go visit and subscribe to their website!

Magical Economies (Part Two)

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In part one, I explore magic as an arcane study. If you haven’t read that part, click the link below.

Is This Really a Good Deal?

Last I checked, you still can’t get something for nothing at the “Magical, Paranormal, Special, Super Powers Store”!  It’s downright outrageous… the prices they’re asking fictional characters to pay these days! Oh well…limited supply; great demand will inflate prices. Previously, I explored the tedious path of exhaustive studies to gain greatness. I also talked about sacrificing something greatly valued, as another way to secure fantastic outcomes or abilities. Now, let’s consider magic with “strings attached”! There are some delightful examples of “items of power” harboring evil intelligences within.  These hidden presences patiently wait with deadly agendas and excessively, domineering wills all their own. 

Something deep within the human psyche seems to enjoy a good fright, especially, if couched safely and comfortably within the bounds of a story. The sheer quantity of books, television shows, and movies narrating the exploits of supernatural evil elements attests to this fact. Many presume fantasy focuses solely on the eternal struggles between good and evil and expect to be regaled with scenes of epic battles. Yet, there are many tales about subtler forms of malevolence wrecking havoc, if not more! Within these sinister plots, woven throughout, are tantalizing snares attractive to those thirsty for power.  Fair-faced villains cajole, bargain with or outright trick characters into promising payment in return for the bestowal of unnatural gifts.

An absolute favorite character of mine, Elric of Melniboné, was created by Michael Moorcock during the mid-twentieth century.  Elric is a weak, albino prince, who hails from a mighty sorcerer race. He is reliant on an endless supply of potions and magic only just allowing him to live a stilted, embarrassing existence. Complicating matters, there is a cousin eager to usurp the imperial throne and have the woman Elric loves. Additionally, the people Elric presides over find him odd, even distasteful as a ruler. Needing to find a way to remedy his inborn weakness, he forges pacts with chaotic gods to rid himself of his frail constitution. This leads Elric to a demonic sword aptly named, Stormbringer. The sword grants Elric strength, vitality and great power, but only if he kills and feeds the sword souls. The blade, having an insatiable appetite, demands ever more. Its evil nature yearns to feed on everyone Elric holds dear. He is dependent upon the sword, yet abhors the evil acts it demands. Initially, the perfect solution to his problems, it ultimately brings much ill to Elric. The books are difficult to obtain now, unless you enjoy graphic novels. But, it’s worth the trip to your local library! Thankfully, later this year, the series is being reissued by Tor Publishing! 

The mythos of a crossroads demon is brought to life on the television show, “Supernatural”, with enormous dramatic appeal. These diabolical fiends will grant a person whatever they wish, in return for the person’s soul at the end of a set period of time. They are attracted to intense desire for fame, fortune, power or other desperate worldly yens. “Supernatural” uses a legend surrounding the late, famous blues musician, Robert Johnson, to introduce these demonic characters to the series’ storyline. Johnson burst onto the music scene, seemingly out of nowhere, quickly garnering accolades and fame in the early twentieth century. Popular opinion at the time insisted only a pact with the Devil could account for such an overnight success. His death at a relatively early age only fueled speculation and added credence to this tale. An episode of “Supernatural” begins depicting a frightened, bedraggled Robert Johnson hiding, late at night, in a small, isolated, ramshackle shack. The agreed upon period of ten years has transpired and the time to pay for his unnatural musical talent has come. Doors locked, lights all on, salt on the floor to bar out demonic forces, he sits with a rifle. All the precautions are all to no avail though. Invisible, sulfuring-smelling, giant dogs prowl outside the house. These are the hellhounds of myth. Well…you know what happens. The demons penetrate Johnson’s defenses and his soul is devoured, right on schedule. 

Even Disney writers frequently dip a hand into the murky waters surrounding bargains with evil. A recent example from the plot of the animated movie, “The Princess and the Frog” contains a refreshingly, new look at magic and the desperate promises one make to obtain it.  Doctor Facilier, a practitioner of dark voodoo, is a greedy man with high aspirations. His target is a wealthy, young prince. Facilier attempts to entrap the spoiled, foolhardy royal. But, working with magic usually caused things to go awry and this time is no different. The prince escapes, but not before being turned into a frog. Facilier requests further aide from evil voodoo spirits, vowing to hand over to the otherworldly forces all the souls they desire, once he is in control of New Orleans. Flush with supernatural assistance, he banks all his hopes, putting into motion a plan guaranteeing dominance over the people of the Big Easy. Failing to outwit the protagonists, Facilier is doomed to repay his “friends on the other side” the only way he can. The villain is devoured, body and soul by the spirits. Not an easy scene for an adult to watch, let alone a youngster!

I would be remiss without mentioning the One Ring in Tolkien’s, “Lord of the Rings”. The gradual devouring of Sméagol’s “humanity” is elegantly evidenced. Despite being initially taken in by the insidious glory of the master ring, the hobbit is, temporarily at least, an effective foil to Sauron’s plan. Perhaps, it is his simplistic, pastoral mind which prevents him from seeking vast power over countless others. Yes, Sméagol does initially create trouble for his small community, but ultimately chooses to run off and hide with his Precious. How different and interesting would it be if the character, Sméagol, was more worldly and learned. What if he held a place of prestige and authority within his river dwelling hobbit society? We could assume, he would have taken control and ruthlessly used what meager resources they had to expand his rule. But, how would it have looked? Perhaps, Sméagol and his fellow stoors would have sought to create a powerful, mercantile enterprise controlling the trade along their river? Would the ring have tolerated such a diminutive exercising of power? Certainly, Sméagol’s cruel, domination of his fellow hobbits would have attracted the attention of Sauron and the Nazgul would easily have recovered the ring.

But, despite Sméagol pouring his heart, soul, love and very essence into the ring, he doesn’t seem desirous to master it or wield it. Rather, the ring becomes a bosom “friend”, ally, and confident for the river hobbit. I would suggest the ring replaces the friend Sméagol kills to obtain it. It seems our poor hobbit might have had a shred of a conscious at one point. Nevertheless, Sauron is still able to conquer Sméagol, who becomes twisted, demented and wholly enslaved to the ring. Becoming ever more jealous, delusional and distrustful, he is unwillingly to share the ring and convinced there is a constant threat to his possession of it. Sauron’s master ring utilizes these character flaws to dominate Sméagol and Gollum is born. In turn, the hobbit is able to become invisible and lives far beyond his natural lifespan. But, it is the ring itself that Sméagol desires, not power or riches. This appears to be something Sauron never anticipated…an individual uninterested in commanding the latent, immense power the ring held. Sauron’s failure to anticipate others could resist the ring’s allure, simply because they did not desire power, was the only weakness Gandalf and the White Council are able to use against him. 

The master ring is the prime example of an evil object of power hiding behind a beautiful facade. Interestingly, Sauron, himself, was at one time able to mask his treachery in fair form and with silvered-tongue speech. But, he lost this ability when destroyed with the men of Númenór, long before the events retold in the “Lord of the Rings”. I recommend reading J. R.R. Tolkien’s true masterpiece, “The Silmarillion” to learn about the origins of Sauron and the rings of power he created. The master ring, Sauron created, was truly master of all! One has to ask was it the ring that was wielded or did the ring wield the wearer? The one ring, in a sense, ensnared even its creator, who poured so much of his own essence into its making, he ultimately couldn’t properly survive without it. It boggles the mind! 

In part three of Magical Economies, I’d like to consider those character willing to sacrifice everything, even themselves, to purchase magnificent gains in magic or power to defend and save others.

Flash Fiction: The Cursed Power

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“Understand this. The power is a curse.”

Nakul stared. The woman’s pupils were slitted like a snake.

The youth nodded. 

Indali sighed.

“Why, Boy? Show you comprehend my meaning.”

He shifted apprehensively; surveying the cluttered hut. Nestled beneath the washbasin, an immense python lay curled upon itself. Seemingly attentive, the snake slowly blinked pronounced, round, brown eyes.

“Why are we and others like us damned?” 

Nakul had fled home and everything he knew to escape death. He cursed those afraid of him. But, the animal speak he cherished.

“Every time I use the power; I lose a part of me.”

Keenly conscious of Indali’s piercing gaze, he subconsciously ran his tongue delicately over his teeth. The needle-sharp canines filled him with a sense of exhilaration.

“Nakul. You saved your life the day the cobra bit you. Most would have died. The price though was a fragment of your humanity.”

Word Count: 150.

Courtesy of Prompt Titled: Huge Mistake.

By THESOLITARYWORDSMITH at PROMPTUARIUM.

Great sources for writing prompts! Please go visit and subscribe to their website!