Sharpening

The swordsmith looked up from his forge. "Ohe, the White Knife. "

"Master smith, sharpen my steel." He laid the blade across his arm and offered it hilt first.

The smith took it and inspected it. "Sharp enough as it is. If you're hitting armor, you'll likely notch it, if you put a fine edge on it. You'd notch a normal blade, anyway; I don't know about this one."

Mack leaned forward, the glow of the forge deepening the shadows under his eyes. "Sharpen it. Put an edge on it as fine as the line between never was and never will be. Make it cut like lies and false hopes. Sharpen it!"

Home invasion part 1

He came awake suddenly, not knowing what he'd heard. Where am I? Oh. Gwen's bedroom, right. I wonder if--

They are trying to get in.

He sat up abruptly. The night was overcast, but city lights reflecting from low clouds gave enough light for him to see. Good thing she likes lace instead of heavy curtains. He found his shorts and slid them on, moved quietly to the divan where he'd laid his clothes. From somewhere downstairs there was a metallic snap and a brief whoosh; it took him a moment to place it as the sound of patio glass door sliding open. They must have opened it the first few inches and had it bump against the lock, and that's what woke me. Then they broke the lock and forced it open. I wonder if they think the place is empty, or if they think Gwen's here?

He slid the Glock out of its holster and thought about the layout of the house. He could hide in a closet or the bathroom; but if they did found him, he wouldn't have any room to maneuver. He could wait in the bedroom, but there was nowhere for him to take cover except behind the bed, and that wouldn't stop a bullet. And if there's any shooting, I don't want the blood to be in Gwen's bedroom. The bottom of the stairway was open and would give him no protection as he went down stairs. If he made it, he'd be able to see the whole great room; but anyone in the great room would also be able to see him. And if there was more than one burglar—the Voice said "they"—one of them could go through the kitchen and come at the stairs from his back side. No good. But if they wanted Gwen, they'd have to come upstairs. If he waited at the bedroom door, anyone coming up the stairs would be a sitting duck.He settled the Glock in his hand and crept to the door, keeping close to the door so the floorboards would be less likely to creak.

Sometimes the night

In the small cold hours,
I am silent in my library, with its
old leather smells and the yellow light
And the weight of a volume in my lap
And think myself safe.

But sometimes the night calls me.

I hear the wind mourn at my door as it claws,
tosses oak branches that whisper together.
Away in the distance, high in the fey hills,
the Piper raves wildly, the Hounds sob and cry,
the Huntsman is riding in search of his prey.
He sounds his horn, summoning wild things to join him
the night elves are caught like the leaves of November
in a flurry of hooves, dark eyes aglitter,
they ride behind him, seeking their quarry,
the pack draws closer, the horn is calling
the old oak stirs, takes a step, reaches in
and I rush to my door, but too late--
they are gone.

Love letter

Yes, my princess, I want to know the taste of your lips and the feel of your body. But what I want is you, in full. To hear your breathing as you sleep, and see your face in the first faint light of dawn. To wake you with tea and strawberries. To shop with you for groceries and art and furniture. To read beside you, not needing to talk. To lie on our backs in an open field under a hot blue sky, talking about philosophy and watching the clouds. To hold you when you're hurt, to watch over you when you're sick, to carry you when you're too weak to stand. To waltz with you, glorious in evening gown and aglitter with diamonds. To walk through castles and forests with you. To comfort you when you're weeping and to delight in you when you're joyful. To watch the night with you, and sing together to the stars. To know your secret shames and to love you the more. To serve you, evening and morning.

Unfinished poem

I give you an empty kiss, a socially acceptable hug
And am forgotten before I touch the doorknob--
One more task done from your list for the day,
after "call mother", before "fold laundry."

So I get into my sensible car, and drive to my
Steady employment, and do whatever I do there,
And leave there to drive placidly home, where I
Sit in this yellow light, quietly reading,

But sometimes the night calls to me....

Matthieu Thistlehunter

Matthieu is tall, broad-shouldered, stoutly built, as strong as an ox and very nearly as smart. His skin is fair and reddened by the sun; his hair is flaxen, his face is broad, cheery and guileless. He wears a homespun shirt and doeskin breeches.
One day when he was a lad, clearing a patch of thistles on a hill, one of the thistles seized his ankle and started to pull. Matthieu was frightened out of his wits, but he struck with his mattock at whatever was clutching his ankle until it weakened, then jumped back. He tumbled down the rocky slope, banging his head and knees and shoulders, then picked himself up and ran for home. His father and uncles said it must have been a goblin that grabbed him, but Matthieu has never seen a goblin, and he knows thistles are evil and just waiting to get you.
Now, when he sees a thistle plant, he'll sneak up until he gets close to it, then suddenly attack it with his trusty mattock. He's slain many a thistle now.

Noticing

"Did you notice anything unusual about that girl in the parking lot that we just drove past?"
"The one with the white, um, it's too skimpy to be a miniskirt..."
"Yeah."
"She had a green thong."
"I didn't see that. Did you notice her ankle?"
"She has a black...athletic wrap, or brace. That's not exactly what I was paying attention to."
"Goat's foot. About halfway down her calf, her leg turns into a goat's foot, with black fur, or whatever you call it for a goat. Hair, I guess."
"That girl is a demon?"
"Yeah. A succubus, I imagine. Maybe not a demon, exactly, she might be more like a female satyr, follower of Pan, or something. Not something we need to deal with, but next time you see a girl who's just too hot to be true, pay attention to what you're actually seeing."

Are you having trouble

At a pause for a red light, he looked at her. She was looking straight ahead, lost in thought, a slight furrow on her brow, her hands fidgeting. He glanced again in the rearview, and decided. 

"Are you having problems? Anything that you need help with?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Nobody's after you, or anything like that?"

This time she turned to look at him. "No, thanks, I'm fine."

"Okay." He accelerated away from the light, and added, "I'm just asking because someone shot an arrow at us. It's stuck in the back of the car."

Setting

The Age of Discovery. The pseudo-Europeans arrive in the pseudo-New World to discover deserted cities. A plague from previous contacts has killed off 90% of the indigenous population, but before that, there was a civilization here--a civilization with sociopathic elves as the nobles, and neanderthaloid goblins as the commoners. Tribes of untamed goblins are moving down from the north to occupy the lands now vacant; small, hidden groups of elves maneuver to regain power.

What for the Blood God?

(credit to Josh for the idea)


The war god paced in front of his assembled worshippers. He put one battle-scarred hand over his left ear and shouted, "I can't hear you!" The devout warriors redoubled their chant: "Blood for the Blood God!"
Khorne yelled "Not you lot!" but they didn't hear him. He lowered his head and growled, "Look, Tzeentch, I'm bringing the cards, you're bringing the food. Got it? The chips I'm bringing are for keeping score, the chips you're bringing are for eating. And nothing fancy! What? Speak up! Liver patties? Okay, I guess. What? Look, I can't hear, let me deal with my minions and I'll get back to you."
He turned to face his worshippers, and they roared in exultation: "Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!" Khorne raised his axe and they cheered. The war god soaked up their adulation absentmindedly for a few minutes, until suddenly he looked up and cocked an eyebrow. "What was that? What was that you said?" He held out his hands to quiet the legion, then pointed at their leader. "You! Chaos General What's-your-name. What was that you said?"
The black-armored champion stepped forth. "May it please you, my lord, I was saying 'May your enemies be ground--' "
"No, no, before that."
"Er...something about "Your axe strikes as lightning', I think? I didn't write it."
"No, before that. Blood for the Blood God, and...?"
The Chaos General smiled in relief. "Ah, yes. Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
The legions behind him took up the battle cry: "Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne! Blood for the--"
Khorne waved angrily. "That's not right."
Dead silence descended.
Korne patted his armor. "I have a list, I know I do, I put it...no, not there...ah!" He produced a sheet of parchment, made from the skin of a fel beast and inscribed with cursed ink. "Here we are. I made a list, two items, just two, mind you, and you've got one of them wrong, haven't you? Item the first, blood for the Blood God, right, even a gang of drunken berserkers could hardly mess that up. Item the second, cleaning supplies for the Skull Throne. Look." He handed the parchment to the general. "Cleaning supplies. Not skulls."
The general looked at the paper, then handed it without comment to his second in command, an up-and-coming type who he cordially detested. The latter read it and muttered, "Er, but it does say skulls."
The war god roared, "What?"
The warrior said hastily, "Well, yes, but I see what happened, you made this rune with a bit of a hook, see, this stroke here, and if you'd made it properly, with a straight stroke, then it would have arrgh!" He fell in two halves, cleft by Khorne's axe.
The general muttered, "Well, that was a straight stroke."

At a glance

Mack accelerated as soon as the light turned green and glanced side to side. Right, the Japanese restaurant has a banner up. Center, something white in the median, a paper bag--

Skull--

and on the left, on the other side of the road, a girl jogging. He looked back at the white thing. Looking directly at it, it looked like a crumpled paper bag, but he could still see the dark circles. He looked away, watching the spot from the corner of his eye. It was a skull, maybe human, humanoid at least, placed upright, facing east. There was something painted or worked into the brow, and half a dozen dark flat things, stones or metal, arranged in a circle around it. That was all he could see before he drove past. He didn't know what it was, whether it was a warning or boundary marker or offering or what. He kept going.

Knights charge

     Berenger rode out in front of the company of knights and pointed his sword east. "On that road lies Terebon the fair, and beyond her bridge are Count Raimond's troops, marching to her relief. And there," he he stabbed westward, "are our enemy, five and twenty thousand, who think tonight to despoil our city. And between them we stand, three hundred knights--and God with us!"

     "God with us!"

     Berenger continued, "Woe unto those who fight against Him, for they shall fly like smoke before the wind when He gives the word to scatter them. Not to us, not to us, O Lord, but to Your name be glory!"

     "To God the glory!"

     The knights cast their cloaks to the ground, couch their lances and advance at a trot. Their banner lifts and snaps in the breeze.  

Grog

Grog was a dwarven warrior, hard as stone and very nearly as smart as his wardog, Dog. Unless prompted, his vocabulary consisted of five words: Grog, Dog, drink, gold, and orc.

Grog led the way into the cellar. He spotted a sword lying on the floor. He picked it up, decided it wasn't interesting, and tossed it back over his shoulder. 

Something clanged behind him. He spun around, axe at the ready. There was a sword on the floor. He picked it up, decided it wasn't interesting, and tossed it back over his shoulder. 

Something clanged behind him. He spun around, axe at the ready. There was a sword on the floor. He picked it up, decided it wasn't interesting...and the mage hastily said, "Grog, mind if I take a look at that sword?" 

Meeting the elf

In the two seconds of internal debate, he'd driven past whoever it was. He pulled onto the gravel shoulder, rolled down the passenger window, and waited for the walker to come up to the car. The rain was coming down now, and it was hard to see; he still couldn't decide whether it was a man or a woman.

Meeting the elf

Mack would never have known elves were real if he hadn't seen her in the rain.

It had been a sunny October day until a cold front came through. Now, as Mack got into his car to head home, the afternoon's cool mist was turning into rain. He pulled out of the parking lot onto Diamond Springs, turned left at the light onto Northampton, and saw someone trudging along beside the road. The walker was slim, wearing jeans, a denim jacket, and a ball cap.

I wonder if that's a man or a woman.

You should give them a ride.

If it's a girl, she'll probably turn me down, afraid of getting raped.

You need to pull over and try, at least.

Silly Sheep

The sheep lived on The Hill, which looked something like your nose; and over there was That Hill, which looked rather like your knees. In between was a valley with a Fence.

The grass on That side of the Fence was different, because it was on That side. Because it was different, the sheep--who weren't very bright--thought it must be better. But the Fence was in the way. So the sheep decided to get over the Fence.

The first sheep ambled down The Hill and across the valley. He bumped into the Fence. Then he stopped. He didn't know what to do next. He stood there with his head against the Fence.

The second sheep marched down The Hill. When he got close to the Fence, he put down his head and charged! He ran straight into the Fence. He bounced back one step. He took one step sideways. He fell over.

The third sheep decided to jump over the Fence. He jumped up and down. Sheep don't jump well. He kept jumping up and down. Not very far up, and not very far down.

The fourth sheep had an idea. If two other sheep stood together, he could stand on top of them. That way he would be high enough to jump over the Fence. The fifth sheep and sixth sheep thought this was a good idea. They went to the Fence. Sheep Four said "Stand together so I can get up." Sheep Five said, "No, I will get up." Sheep Six said "Only the one who climbs up can get over the Fence. That should be me." Sheep Four said, "But it was my idea!" So they stood at the Fence and argued.

The seventh sheep saw the third sheep. He jumped. He almost got over the Fence. He was a good jumper, for a sheep. He decided to go play basketball.

First Post

 The word ficton was created by Robert A. Heinlein and defined as the basic unit of imagination. From a storyteller's point of view, that means a ficton will be a scene, a vignette, a character, an image. This blog is for the various bits of stories which carom around the inside of my head in Brownian motion, sometimes fusing into a tale, sometimes not. Commentary is invited.