Mine

First, smallpox took three of the village’s strongest. Then came word of raiders. The villagers fled, taking what little they could of the recent harvest. Only old Jacob stayed, too frail to spend the coming winter riding a cart.

When they came, he greeted them with politeness. “Welcome, what is mine is yours.”

Their leader approached him, and laughed. “Yes! Yes, it is!”

Jacob lunged with a knife, but inflicted only a deep scratch.

Yes, he thought, as he died under their swords, what is mine is yours. Everything, even the dirt on my knife, from the smallpox graves.

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This story first appeared at Crap Mariner’s 100 Word Story Challenge in January 2012.
Image: Gearrannan Blackhouse Village

Space

I step through the church porch and close the heavy wooden door, hearing the echoes of the latch dropping into place. The nave runs eastward, to my right. No rood screen, I think. There is one aisle, on the north side. I walk up the nave and sit in one of the pews, listening to the silence. There is no-one else here.

Mathematicians have proved that you cannot hear the shape of a drum. But the three-dimensional case is not settled. Can you hear the shape of a space?

Well enough, I think, tapping my white cane on the stone.

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This story first appeared at Crap Mariner's 100 Word Weekly Challenge in 2012.

How Gunnar said yes to Helgi

Helgi went a-viking, then overwintered in Denmark. When he returned, he put his finest saddle on his finest horse, and rode to visit Gunnar.

“You have a fine bull, friend Gunnar,” said Helgi. “Will you lend it, to mate my cows?”

“Yes,” said Gunnar, “if you will give me what you ride on.”

“I will give you this saddle, from the King of Denmark,” replied Helgi. “Will you then lend me the bull?”

“Yes,” said Gunnar, “if you will give me something more.”

“It is a hard bargain,” said Helgi, “but I will give you this horse also. Will you then lend me the bull?”

“Yes,” said Gunnar, “if you will give me something more.”

Helgi said, “Do I ride on aught but my saddle and horse?”

“Yes,” said Gunnar, “but you may take the bull, for I have had what you ride already, these winter nights past.”

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Family

Ephraim Smethewicke’s will left everything “to his family”. But although Ephraim was well known and loved in the town, a ready companion and support to young and old, high and low, rich and poor, he had never made mention of wife nor children, nor even brothers, or cousins. An industrious life and modest living in old age had left a substantial estate, which his executors considered too large to merely drop in the poorbox as an intestacy.

At last, they decided to found a bank, for the assistance of business in that town, devoting the profits to charitable works. And so Ephraim’s will was fulfilled.

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This story first appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 Word Story Weekly Challenge.

Christmas

I remember that night. Place was packed, so I let them doss down in a shed. Then the portents start. New stars, angels, sorcerors wanting in on the action. Something to tell my grandkids, I thought.

Later, though, I hear stories. Imagine having a two-year-old God in your village! He killed people on a whim, no-one could touch him, he'd just do worse. And the pranks, by Mithras! So, he grows up, gets some sense but not enough, then it seems the juju’s going away. Didn’t take long to get him nailed up then.

I just hope he stays dead.

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And if you’d like to know more about what it’s like to have a two-year-old God in your village, look up the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. It’s 2nd century New Testament horror fanfiction, and very popular in the Middle Ages.

I do wonder if Jerome Bixby’s classic SF story “It’s a good life” was inspired by it.

Merry Christmas, anyway.

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This story first appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 Word Story Weekly Challenge.
Image credit: Digitized Sky Survey (DSS), STScI/AURA, Palomar/Caltech, and UKSTU/AAO.

When

Oh will you be my wife, my love

Oh will you be my wife?

Build me a castle fit for a queen

Oh then I'll be your wife.

Here is a castle fit for a queen

Oh will you be my wife?

Make a garden as far as the eye can see

Oh then I'll be your wife.

Here's the finest garden in all the land

With arbours and fountains on every hand

Oh will you be my wife?

When the stars go out and the sun grows cold

And moths have eaten all your gold

Oh then I'll be your wife.

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Waiting for Santa Claus

A play in one act.

A living room. Night. A Christmas tree. Two small children.

Tina (the older one): Scott.

Scott (the other one): What?

T: Did you ever read the nativity story?

S: (He reflects.) I read the pictures.

T: What's "myrrh"? Everyone says they brought gold, somethingsomething, and "myrrh".

S: (examining his foot) Maybe it's what they make mirrors from.

T: Santa Claus might know.

S: Will he come?

T: We sent word...

(Long pause.)

T: (getting up) Let's go to bed.

S: We can't.

T: Why not?

S: We're waiting for Santa Claus.

(T sits down.)

(Long pause.)

S: Let's go.

T: Let's.

(They do not move.)

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