Writing and Stuff by Steve Kanaras
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Writetober Day 27, Thunder

10/28/2018

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In those days, before the really nasty wars between the giants and the Aesir, Thor and his brother Loki often wandered around Jotunheim in search of company, beer, and companionship. The giants were friendly enough, if prone to anger after drinking ale and mead, and they invited the brothers into their mead hall for the evening.

Thor ate and drank enough for five giants, while Loki merely picked at some chicken meat and nursed mead from a lone pour in his goblet. The Aesir brothers made a solid impression on the giants by singing songs in the giant language, which Loki knew very well, and Thor did a fine job mouthing and humming when necessary. When the party wound down, and all the giants and Thor had drunk themselves into a stupor, arrangements were suggested for the gods.

“Would our guests be so kind as to spend the evening in our humble Inn. We can have rooms ready for you within the hour, and they have soft beds and fine linens for your comfort,” a giant named Tiefur said.

“Thank you, but we have made camp in the forest,” Loki politely declined.

“Loki, you ungrateful buffoon!” Thundered Thor, “It is late, and Thor would like a restful sleep on a comfortable bed. And also the companionship of Leefa, who sat near me while we sang in the Hall. You can arrange it Tiefur?”

“Ye...Yes, my Lord,” the giant stammered. He hesitated because Leefa, the maiden who sat near Thor was also Tiefur’s daughter. Honor bound him to fulfill the God’s request, much as it disgusted him to even think it. Tiefur left the brothers at their table to make the arrangements.

“Looks like it will be a warm night for me, Loki,” Thor said, “did you not fancy one of the giant maidens for yourself?”

“Do you think it wise, brother, to cavort with the local maidens? Often with giants, these encounters leave you with...obligations.”

“It is true, Loki, my hammer is full of lightning and thunder. If that is what the Norns wish for me, I will have to live with those obligations. I seem to recall you have three such obligations yourself.” Thor was drunk, and speaking more eloquently than usual because of it.

“You are truly remarkable, brother,” Loki said. “I will take my leave in my room. Enjoy your storm.”

Loki arose and sought out Tiefur. He found the giant sobbing by the bar. His daughter, Leefa hugged her father around the shoulders, trying to console him.

“Tiefur, I have come for my room. But I find you forlorn. What troubles you, good sir?” Loki did not often feel the tug of sympathy, but for Tiefur he took pity.
“Leave us, Leefa,” Tiefur said, and the girl went. “Loki, I have but one daughter. And by that I mean I have only her. I have no sons, and my wife is long dead. She died when Leefa was born. Leefa is all I have in this life. It is my duty to honor your brother’s wishes, but I will be destroyed if your brother takes her from me, or ruins her.”

Loki understood the man’s concern. He saw in the giant’s dilemma an opportunity to help him, and an equal opportunity to make a fool of Thor. The debate in his mind was trying to determine which gave him more joy.

“I will help you, Tiefur,” Loki smiled, “you can fulfill your duties to your guest, and preserved your daughter’s innocence. But in order to do so, I have need of a goat, and your daughter’s finest dress.”

The giant looked up at the god, part of him relieved, and a bigger part confused. But he merely said, “I will get them, my lord.”

“Perfect,” Loki said, as he schemed.

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Writetober Day 26, Stretch

10/28/2018

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Calvin Barnes and his daughter Sally,  watched the outfielder leisurely catch the softly hit fly ball, ending the top of the seventh. He rose from his seat as the graphic on the stadium’s scoreboard encouraged the fans to partake of the “7th Inning Stretch.”

“Daddy, what are you doing?” Sally asked.

“It’s the 7th Inning Stretch, honey. Look around you.”

She saw almost everyone in the bleachers stand up and partake of the time honored baseball ritual. Sally stood fascinated by so many people, natural as can be, stretching in their seats, each with a unique take. And then the music started, and everyone began to sing. She loved it.

“...and it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out, at the old...ball...game!”

She applauded along with everyone, staring in wonderment at display of camraderie.

“Does that happen every time, Daddy?”

“Of course, honey. It’s one of the best things about watching a live baseball game,” Calvin couldn’t be more pleased having his daughter at the game. She really seemed to enjoy the game. He wasn’t sure how the eight year old would like his favorite sport. Little girls tended to like whatever their fathers exposed them too. So it was no surprise Sally loved professional wrestling, the three stooges, and now, baseball. Her mother got her into unicorns, princesses, and castles. Baseball took a little more effort though, because she didn’t really grasp the rules, and it moved slowly on television.

“Why do they do that?”

“Remember what we talked about before we came to the ballpark, Sally? They play nine innings to see which side can bring the most men home,” her father said.

“I remember! Nine, nings, one ning for the elves, one ning for the dwarves, one ning for the gnomes, 5 nings for the kingdoms of men, and one ning for the Dark Lord Ruth of York,” she recited.

“Innings honey, not nings, but good job remembering! Now, when the Dark Lord was sold to the city of York by the empress Nanette, he brought his innings with him. He played pitcher, throwing better than everyone and as a better hit the ball harder,” he continued.

“Not like these sissies!” she said, jumping out of the seat.

“That’s right, honey. None of these players compare,” he smiled. Daddy’s girl.

“So the Dark Lord Ruth invented the stretch?” she asked.

“Here’s how the chronicle tells it. The Dark Lord Ruth of York held a larger stature and wider girth than the subjects of the realm,” he said.

“He was fat?” said Sally.

“We don’t say that, honey. But, yeah, he was big. So he enjoyed eating hot dogs and drinking beer. Before games, and after games. Well, sometimes even during games. So he started asking for a break in between the seventh inning. Giving himself time to eat a hot dog, and rest. And everyone in the stadium, in deference to the Dark Lord, took a little break to stretch their legs.” Calvin grinned, pleased with himself.

“Daddy. I love baseball.”

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Writetober Day 25, Prickly

10/27/2018

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The front gate to Magical Procurements LTD stood several hundred yards from the castle which served as headquarters. Between the gate and the castle grew an incredibly manicured garden, replete with, fabulous oak trees, flowers, hedges, and decorated with magnificently carved fountains and statues. And tending to that garden was Polemistis, which means “warrior,” a funny name considering the gardener spent his time rooting around the dirt pulling weeds. His parents obviously had loftier ambitions for their son. And they probably should have, considering he was, after all a Minotaur.

Polemistis whacked at a stump with a great axe, having earlier felled a tree stricken with a rotting disease. He’d been working at it for some time, and his ample arm and shoulder muscles ached from the strain. Stopping to wipe his brow with a rag, he caught sight of the armored dwarf atop a pony. He felt sympathy for the animal as it was clearly weary from carrying the bulk of the dwarf, his chain mail armor, and several packs and bags filled with gear.

No one was expected this afternoon, Master Armand seldom took visitors on weekends, and surely none with business on their minds. And this dwarf did not appear to be paying a social visit.

“Ho, there!” Polemistis called out, “state your name and business.”

“Steiner Strifebjorn, Son of Baron Strifebjorn, Lord of Strifebjorn Manor in the…”

“What do you want, Steiner?” the minotaur interrupted. He hated noble name introductions. Keep it simple.

“I seek audience with your Master,” the dwarf relieved his struggling animal and approach the finely wrought gate. The minotaur addressed him from behind the fence, and sneered at Steiner. Though the dwarf couldn’t tell. Bull facial expressions are notoriously difficult for the more man-like races to understand, but ogres and trolls can generally make sense of them. Steiner had less difficulty understanding the minotaurs words, however.

“Piss off, it’s the weekend.”

“I will forgive your impudence, beast-man. Your master’s rules and regulations are well known to me. Under normal circumstances, I would not dare call on him during his periods of revels. But I beseech you to listen to my tale, and you will know why it is urgent I speak with Armand,” the dwarf pleaded.

Not known as a patient creature, Polemistis indulged the noble dwarf, for the lone reason of giving his limbs much needed rest from his difficult stump whacking. He made his way to the gate and went through, meeting the dwarf on the other side to listen to his story.

The astounding nature of the dwarf’s tale surely compensated for the irritating manner with which the aristocratic Steiner spoke. These nobles need  to get a grip. Insufferable.

“...and that is how I acquired my prize. The prize which, upon you viewing, will most surely compel you to retrieve your Master from whatever recreation he is partaking in for the weekend,” the dwarf pontificated.

Get on with it.

The dwarf retrieved an item from his backpack. He pulled off his leather glove, and carefully pulled the twine which held the cloth around the fist sized object. The minotaur might have admitted he was intrigued by the dwarf’s tale of monster slaying, and was indeed smitten by the sight of the unwrapped item.

“Behold, minotaur,” the dramatic dwarf bellowed, “Behold the heart of a Manticore!”

He held the prickly object high in his outstretched hand, which came up nearly to Polemistis’ pectorals.

“Impressive...let me get Master Armand,” the minotaur said.

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Writetober Day 24, Chop

10/25/2018

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There was about a week left of summer vacation when Aleister got back from Japan. Andy, Rob and Scott blasted slap shots with a tennis ball at the goal, which was tended by Jason. With Aleister back, they could play two on two street hockey versus the goalie, which was much better competition. Little did the boys know, however, that nobody travels to Japan over a summer and comes back unchanged. Aleister walked out to the cul-de-sac without his CCM hockey stick with the wicked blade he cooked over the gas stove into a highly illegal curve.

“Hey, Aleister, welcome back!” said Jason, lifting up his goalie mask to properly greet his fried.

“Arigato, Jason-san,” said Aleister and he gave the goalie a formal bow.

“Dude, where’s your hockey stick? We wanna play two on two.” Scott said. Of the five of them, Scott took street hockey the most seriously. The others didn’t take him too seriously.

“Tell us about Japan, Al,” said Andy, “I mean, did you see any ninjas?”

“I hear the Nintendo games are like two years ahead of us, is that true?” Rob chimed in.

“I have many great things to tell you, my friends,” Aleister said, talking like some kind of monk. He held his hands in front of his body, in an almost prayer like manner. “You may not believe the things I have seen.”

“Ninjas?” said Andy.

“Oh Andy, Andy, not ninjas. So much better than ninjas. Come over to my house, and we will drink tea, and I will share things that will expand your minds.”

“You came back weird, Al,” said Rob. The boys put down their hockey sticks and followed Aleister back to his house.

It got even more weird when they entered the dining room. The table was laid out with an elaborate tea service. Little ceramic cups without handles sat at each setting, one for each of the five boys. The ceramic tea kettle sat on a metal trivet in the center of the table. Five boxes of Poki were arranged like a flower next to the kettle.

“Sit and drink tea, my friends, and I will share what I have learned, and what will arise in our near future,” Aleister gestured grandly.

They drank some tea, and munched on the Poki, which none of the boys had ever tried before. Devouring the cookie treats, the boys listened intently to Aleister’s story of Japan.

“My father introduced me to Master Inoki. He was an old man, probably over 200 years old, dressed in a simple white robe with a black belt. But he was stronger than anybody you could imagine,” Aleister said.

“Even Hulk Hogan?” Jason said.

Aleister gave him a stare, “yes, even Hulk Hogan.”

“Wow, that’s strong, “ said Jason.

“Master Inoki can bent solid steel with his bare hands. Trees crumble at the might of his punches. He can run on top of the wind, and perform seventeen backflips in a row. And he taught me something, guys.”

“What did he…” Jason started, but was interrupted by a punch to arm from Andy, “ow…”

“He taught me the Flaming Dragon Sonic Karate Chop...And now, I’m going to teach it to all of you,” Aleister smiled.

“Whoa,” said Jason. All the other boys agreed. Whoa. The end of the summer was going to be amazing.

​
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Writetober Day 23, Muddy

10/23/2018

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“Aaron, I haven’t seen you in three months, and this is how we spent the afternoon,” said Gavin, sinking to his ankles in thick, sloppy mud.

“I wanted to show off my tracking skills. Now pipe down, if they’re close by you’ll scare them off with your whining,” said Aaron as he trudged forward, sinking his walking stick into the mud, looking for solid ground.

“You could have tracked a deer in Angster’s Forest. Anik makes a mean venison stew. And it’s you know, dry ground,” Gavin followed his ranger friend to a giant ash tree, with its roots giving solid footing to the hunters.

“I’m hoping to spot some tracks, or droppings,” said Aaron, bending down to the wet ground in hopes of finding, something.

“I see why they call you guys “dungsniffers,” Aaron.” Aaron shot his friend a look. He resumed his investigation of the terrain as Gavin scraped the mud off his worn leather boots. Gavin cared little for tracking, or hunting in general, but he was a crack shot with a bow. While Aaron rooted around in the mud, he pulled his bow from his back and tested the string. Knocking an arrow, he took aim at a knot in an old maple and fired a shot. Bullseye.

“What the heck, Gavin,” Aaron cried, “are you trying to scare everything away?”

“You find any droppings yet?” Gavin prodded.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Just a possum though. Doesn’t look like there’s been any boars around here in while,” he said as the giant fern behind him began to stir. And then it stirred more violently, then a huge boar that hadn’t been around in a while snorted loudly and looked ready to charge at the very not ready half-elf.

“Uh, Aaron, try not to move ok?” Gavin stretched out his hand in a gesture to the boar, begging it to calm down. “Easy big fella…”

Aaron tried to get to his feet, and ended up falling backwards, propping himself up with his hand, which was slowly sinking into the muck. He could feel the hot breath of the hog, who began stomping his hoof on the fern, kicking up slime and mud. The ranger reached for the dagger he kept strapped to his calf, knowing it wouldn’t be of much use if the animal charged.

Gavin knew the beast would pounce at any moment, so he acted to save his friend. He leaped into the air screaming like a banshee, in hope of distracting the boar. It was a fine plan, and worked perfectly, as the boar ignored the half-elf and set his gaze toward the wildly flailing Gavin. It charged at him, trampling through the mud, gleefully imagining a mighty gore. Gavin’s distraction succeeded, but his quick thinking did not account for a less than graceful landing in the muck of the swamp. He foot hit awkwardly and slipped, bringing him crashing into deep mud.

The boar fared worse, planting a front hoof into the mire, and tumbling head first mere inches in front of Gavin. Flipping over onto its back, the startled boar struggled to regain its footing. In his attempt at recovery, Gavin was more successful, finding a more solid footing near a maple tree. He somehow managed to keep a grip on the bow, and reached into his quiver for another arrow.

Aaron for his part, regained his footing, and drew his sword from his mud caked scabbard. The companions readied their weapons, and kept a keen eye on the mighty boar as it regained its composure. It snorted loud and wet, painting the mud with thick mucus.

“Gavin?”

“Yeah, Aaron?”

“Venison stew sounds really good about now.”

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Writetober Day 22, Expensive

10/22/2018

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“Another Dewar’s, Chuck?” the bartender asked.

Chuck Landry certainly wanted another Dewar’s, but he paused, and shot a look to man beside him. The man with the open notebook, and the glasses, and the smarty phone.

“Why don’t you make it a Johnny Walker Black Label, Doug,” Chuck said with a grin. If this guy insisted on interviewing him, and promised to buy the drinks, he might as well go for the expensive stuff. “And we’ll take it over to the booth over there. This guy’s gonna need to start a tab,” he pointed with his thumb to the writer.

“You got it, Chuck.”

The two men made their way to the heavy wooden booth in a more private section of the bar, Chuck with his premium glass of scotch on the rocks, and the writer, whose name was Benjamin with a glass of ice water.

“Could you at least get a beer or something, you’re making me nervous with that water. Hell, get some fruity wine if you want,” Chuck couldn’t understand someone being in a bar and not drinking alcohol. It just wasn’t right.

“I’m fine, Mr. Landry,” Benjamin said, laying down his phone and setting an app to record their conversation. “Now, can we start with the night of August 22nd?”

“August 22nd, well, that was the Friday, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” said Benjamin.

“I get confused sometimes between the Friday and the Monday. So on the Friday, I was trucking some logs to Bentley, and it was just starting to get dark out. So it had to be what, 8:30 or 9 o’clock,” Chuck recounted. “I really wanted to get to the mill and unloaded so I get me a decent night’s rest. I had to get to Missoula by Saturday night, and couldn’t afford to wait until morning to unload.”

“So I was driving on Highway 57, and like I said, it was getting dark. Now my eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be, but I can still see pretty good, even on the dark roads. The damn Governor wanted to save some money for the state, so he doesn’t light the street lights until well past dark if at all in some places, so it was getting a little tough to see. And out of the woods I see it. Eight feet tall at least. And hairy, like a Chewbacca or something.”

“Let me stop you a second. You’re driving the highway. Do you remember how fast you were going?” Benjamin said.

“Maybe 45 miles an hour. It was a heavy load of logs,” Landry said.
“And you said the creature came out of the woods? Was it running, walking?”

“It was walking. Upright, like any man would. I saw it in the bit of grass that separated the roads from the woods. I hit the brakes straight away,” said Landry, “worst damn mistake of my life.” He took a drink from the glass of whiskey. And then kept drinking, downing the entire glass before slamming it down on the table. “Worst damn mistake of my life.”

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Writetober Day 21, Drain

10/21/2018

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They were in the middle of a game of gin rummy, well, in truth, it was nearing the end as Michael led by 200 points, when they hear the gurgling coming from the bathroom. So loud was the gurgling, that both Michael and June got up from the game table in the second bedroom and went to investigate. Even over the sound of the fan which commenced when Michael switched on the light switch, the gurgling was not only audible, but loud. It sounded like a stomach rumbling from hunger, but mixed with clanging of metal pipes.

“What in the world could be causing that?” June asked.

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” said Mike, leaning over the tub, attempting to see something in the tub. Everything looked fine. But the gurgling continued, and in fact, started to increase in both volume and pace. Mike put his arm in front of June, pushing her backwards, as the noise seemed to be reaching a crescendo.

“What…” June began to say, and then…

The drain belched. A brief, but extremely loud belch. A wet belch. The drain belched blood. It shot up maybe two feet, and painted the white ceramic in gooey red.

“Oh, God, gross!” said June, “is that...blood?”

“I don’t know...I don’t want to get too close,” Mike said. The gurgling persisted, but seemed to be subsiding. It was not as noisy, and intermittent. The belch seemed to relieve the drain of its indigestion, and its inner pipes were settling.

“Did you pour anything down this drain today, maybe yesterday?” June asked.

“No, I mean, I took a shower in the morning right after you did, but that’s it.”

“Do you know how we can look at the pipes. And is that blood?” June stared at the bloody tub and hoped to god it wasn’t blood, “oh, no, don’t touch it!” she pleaded, but she was too late. Mike had put a finger to the tub and touched the red liquid. He pulled it up closer to his face.

“Yup, it’s definitely blood,” he said.

“How is that possible? I mean, could like an animal die in the pipes or something. How can we check the source?” June asked.

“Remember when you married me, I was an artist, not a plumber, not a handy-man. I’m as in the dark about this stuff as you,” Michael said.

“Do me a favor, don’t touch it again. It might be evidence,” June said.

“Evidence?”

“Well, we don’t know whose blood this is, so it might be evidence.”

June watched a great deal of crime television. And not only the silly forensic procedurals with the way too good looking police scientists. No, she was a junky for true crime stuff, like the Forensic Files and American Justice. The nastier the crimes, the more she loved to watch. She munched popcorn as police uncovered fibers, and blood, and feces, and semen from crime scenes. So she knew if it was blood, it was probably evidence.

“Do you think these pipes are connected with Mr. Lumbowski’s plumbing? I mean, he’s directly above us,” Michael said.

June’s forensic brain kicked into overdrive. “Oh my God, what if somebody slit Mr. Lumbowski’s throat and let his body drain into his tub? We need to call the police, Michael.”

“Whoa, whoa...before we go reporting a murder, don’t you think we should check up on him?”


**            **            **            **

They knocked on Mr. Lumbowski’s door. Michael prayed he answered the door, but also knew the old man was hard of hearing. June remained convinced he was dead, and feared the murderer might answer with a knife. Michael rapped the door again with his knuckles. Harder this time. They heard the shuffling of feet in their neighbor’s apartment.

“Yes, who is it?” the voice behind the door said. It sounded a lot like Mr. Lumbowski.

Michael shot June a look, as if to say, “I told you so.”

“What if it’s the killer disguising his voice?”

“Mr. Lumbowski, it’s Michael and June from downstairs.”

They heard the chain lock unlatch, and the door opened to reveal their elderly neighbor in his bathrobe. He carried his pipe, and the smell of pipe smoke wafted out the open door into their faces.

“What is it? I’m watching the BBC,” the old man said.

“We had a problem with our drain, Mr. Lumbowski, do you know if you’re tub is ok?” Michael asked. June coughed a little from the lingering smoke.

“As far as I know. I soaked my feet earlier, it was fine.”
“Thank you Mr. Lumbowski. Have a good night, enjoy your programs,” Michael said.

The old man slammed the door, and may or may not have said goodnight.

“He’s totally guilty, I’m calling the police,” said June.

“I’m calling the plumber,” said Michael.

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Writetober Day 20, Breakable

10/21/2018

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The two riders approached the guards cautiously, their horses exhausted from the journey. The lightly armed guards crossed their spears on the path.

“Halt! What business do you have here?” the larger of the two guards said.

The riders dismounted and slowly advanced. “Drian and Duma, we are expected by Livius the Falconer.”

“Surrender your mounts and your weapons and we will announce your presence to the Falconer,” the guard said. He motioned for his companion to address the riders.

Drian and Duma calmly handed their rapiers to the guard. Drian made his way back to his horse and retrieved a box from the saddle bag.

“Water the horses if you can, kind sir, they are exhausted from our travels. We have come a great distance, and a hard ride,” Drian’s politeness took the guard aback. Most visitors were brigands or scoundrels. These two, though haggard from their journey, acted like gentlemen. Their clothing, though stained with mud and grime, betrayed fine manufacture, and the qualtiy of their blades lay clearly beyond the capabilities of the local smiths.

“It will be done, my lord,” the guard said, motioning to his companion, “follow me to the aviary.”

The aviary stood some distance from the stables, a lone, round edifice with a tall roof. It was, in truth, the most spectacular aviary in the Four Kingdoms. Dozens of hawks, falcons, osprey, and a prize eagle inhabited the structure, and it was the refuge of the third son the King, Livius the Falconer. From an early age, Livius had few other interests than hunting with birds of prey.

Furthermore, in addition to training the birds, he learned to study their habits in the wild, and successful bred specimens for his collection. He had also proved their worth in battle, training them to dive at enemy archers. This accomplishment alone redeemed his standing with his father, who otherwise thought his son a major disappointment.

A slight man, the Falconer spent his entire day either in the aviary tending to his flock, or in the fields or forests hunting deer or rabbits with the aid of his birds. A careful, studious man, he seldom moved quickly or betrayed much emotion or excitement. So it took his guard by surprise to see him rush out of the aviary as he was told of the arrival of Drian and Duma.

“Have you got it?” he asked the two travelers, “tell me you’ve got it!”

Drian raised the box with both hands and presented it to the Falconer. He unfastened the clasp and revealed the contents of the box to the lord. Within the finely wrought chest, lined with finely padded velvet rested a perfect egg, creamy white, with hints of bright colors glinting as the sun caught it.
“Wisely packaged, my friend Drian, the egg is among the most easily breakable in the ornithologoical world,” the Falconer said with a huge grin, “I am glad to see you alive.”

“As are Duma and myself to be alive, my lord. It is not common for two humans to invade the Fey Lands and make off with a prized Prismatic Hawk egg,” Drian said. He was proud of himself, and would have an amazing tale to tell. Fleeing through the Fey Land with a pack of elves riding dire wolves through an overgrown forest.

“You will be my guests until the bird hatches. I will have rooms prepared in the manor, and we will have a masquerade held in your honor,” the Falconer closed the box, “Bulger here will show you to your rooms. Have a bath and I will meet your in the late afternoon.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Drian.

The Falconer excused himself, and entered the aviary with the box. Duma looked over Drian, “you trust him, brother?”

“No. But the egg is no longer in our possession. My aim is to get all or at least some of our payment before they come for it.”

“Aye,” said Duma, “good plan.”

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Writetober Day 19, Scorched

10/20/2018

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He brought his face closer to the brazier, the heat on his skin quickly becoming uncomfortable. To get a good look at the swirl of flames, tinged with color from the burning alloys, he got so close his nostrils were assaulted by the acrid smell of scorched oil and metal. Already feeling light headed from the ingestion of nutmeg, Alan’s mind began to wander as the flames hypnotized his suggestible mind. Flickering lights and crackling embers danced in his eyes, and ignited his imagination.

He had activated his phone’s voice recorder, and set the device on the table next to the scrying brazier. As the visions jumped in and out of his head, he called out what he saw in each moment, unconcerned with meaning or coherence.

“A silo in a cornfield wrecked by a tornado.”

“A submarine emerging from the sea amidst ice floes.”

“The bear’s blood covered jaws and the squeal of a salmon.”

“Shrieking cry of a woman as the knife plunges into her chest.”

On and on the visions came, and he called them out to the recorder. The heat and intensity of the visions caused him to sweat profusely from his brow. He wanted to wipe his forehead with a towel but dared not look up from the flames. Time had no meaning as the visions appeared and vanished in his face and in his mind.

“The gleaming ivory tower of Merlin the Magician.”

“Wild dogs tearing a lamb apart as a old shepherd shouts at them to leave it alone.”

“A camel spitting into the desert sand.”

“The crash of waves against rocky bluffs.”

The visions became steadily more intense, and more vivid, with details filling his remaining senses with explosions of feeling. Not merely seeing, he could now smell the offal from the slaughterhouse, felt the numbing cold on his fingertips as he climbed a mountain in Nepal. The mundanity of his basement apartment in South Boston lay a universe away as he leapt into astral projection.

He observed his body, still bent over the flames from the brazier, his voice still calling out visions to the voice recording phone. But now his mind was clear, he could see his physical form, but his consciousness lay above. He flew, ghostlike, above the apartment, detached from the material reality. He looked around, and saw beings like jellyfish floating beside him. A jolt, like an electric shock, startled him as one of the jellyfish flowed through him.
“Pardon me, sir,” it said to him, though not audible. Telepathy.

Alan felt rage, then calm, then sadness, then ravenous hunger, jealousy, ecstasy, excitement, and lust, all in fleeting moments, and in haphazard order. The emotions varied in intensity, and were elicited by no thoughts or stimulations. He just felt them, and then stopped feeling them to feel something else. He could be anxious one moment, then yield to euphoria before being gripped with the most intense fear.

Below him, Alan the diviner still called out visions, but he could not make out the words. The recorder he hoped, would have success in recalling what he was seeing.

And then it stopped. Suddenly, painfully. Alan’s face dipped too close to the flames, and his beard caught light. He brought his hand up to swat out the flames. Running to the  bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, to ease the stinging. He looked up into the mirror at his singed beard. Smiling, he went back to the brazier and doused the flames. Picking up the smartphone, he sat at his desk, and recorded his visions in his notebook.

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Writetober Day 18 Bottle

10/18/2018

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As the sage carefully applied ink to the map, copying from an ancient codex, Gavin flitted like a butterfly, going from shelf to shelf variously looking and touching the menagerie of miraculous objects the sage had collected in nearly a century of life. He picked up a bottle with an inky black liquid and a stopper in the shape of a tiny human skull with eyes painted red. The old man looked up from his intense endeavor and caught Gavin in his piercing gaze.

Gavin’s curiosity made him immune from optic intimidation. “What’s this?” he said.

“It is nothing you should have your hands on,” scolded the sage, “in my day, an unknown liquid with a bottle stopped by a skull with fiery eyes was a notable signal to keep away.”

“Things change. So what is it? A potion of madness, poison of instant death?”

“It is an elixir of ectoplasmic essence,” the sage said matter of factly.

“And, what does it do?” Gavin said.

“It turns you into a ghost. For twenty four hours if you’re lucky, though some wizards fabricate them with an effect that is more...permanent. I don’t suggest you try and see which it is.”

In truth, Gavin would be daring enough to try, just for the experience of being a ghost for a day. But there was no point in doing it now, for no reason. He replaced he bottle on the shelf, in the spot he thought was the same as from where it came. There were so many objects on the shelves, he couldn’t be sure. His eye caught a bauble hidden behind an ivory statue of a griffin, and Gavin carefully retrieved it.

It looked like a seashell, but was made of bronze. It had weathered and oxidized into a dull green, but the detailed patterns of etching in its surface remained pristine and bold. The inscription was in an ancient language he could not read. He had seen the characters before, in one of the sage’s manuscripts.

“Is this a relic from the old empire?” Gavin knew some history. The ancient civilizations possessed knowledge lost to the Four Kingdoms. Their wizards could cause earthquakes, burying enemy armies under rock. Their priests could call upon the ancient gods to raise the dead. And in the learned arts, they were far more advanced than anyone alive today. Navigation, Astronomy, Medicine, Geography, Natural Philosophy, Economics, and so much more was known to them, and shared with all their citizens. They shared knowledge with everyone so that no talent went wasted.

They built mighty cities, thousands of miles of roads, many still in use, mighty aquifers, whose ruins still criss cross the landscape. And they left ruins. Ruins everywhere. Skeletons of their once mighty cities. And these ruins, though long ago pilfered by enterprising lootes, still had secrets and treasures left to be uncovered. The new adventuring economy sprang into being some two decades ago, when a pair of dwarves filled carts of ancient coins, artifacts both magical and mundane.

Gavin wondered which of those this seashell represented. “What does it do?”

“I’ve yet to decipher it. The runes might be magical formulas, or it could be a broach for fastening some seabound knight’s cape,” the old man said. “I’ll get around to it someday. But for now, these maps are the only thing paying the bills.” He motioned for Gavin to leave.

“See you tomorrow,” Gavin said as he waved goodbye. The sage sighed, and commenced copying once again.

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    Steve Kanaras' Blog. I hope you like it. I'm weird.

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