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.