Orcs

The three orcs sat round the fire, gnawing on the bones of an elf.

“You ever wonder,” began Hrakht.

“Wonderin’s for elves an’ yoomns,” grunted Gnurgle.

“I thought...” said Hrakht.

“Ooh, thinkin’ now, izzee?” jeered Rabjagh.

“You know Hrakht ’ere’s only half an orc?” said Gnurgle. “Yoomn mother. Must have scared her when he came out!”

Hrakht remained silent. How could he tell them that he didn’t feel like an orc at all? That he dreamed of belonging to one of the fair races, like the one they had just eaten.

In his dreams, he—no, she—called herself “Jill.”

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This story previously appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 Word Challenge

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(The ravens)

A fragment of an imaginary Anglo-Saxon poem in heroic alliterative verse.

The ravens arrive thundering in thick throngs
Their wings furiously flap as they flock
Mobbing the traveller, mocking with malign caws
“Hraak, hraak,” they cry, the ravening ravens.

A faint heart is fearful of the foul birds
A weak-headed wight fares poorly against wise foes
The strong man stays his course, striving ever onwards
Doughty are his deeds in the dark of their wings
With his stout staff he lays about to strike
Nor without taking wounds does he wager to win
Surely he shatters the birds’ swift bodies.

Thus must a man make merry with death
Turning always towards it.

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Image from “Roots”, a build in Second Life by Cica Ghost, December 2015.
This story first appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 word story weekly challenge.

Robe

There were lead coins sewn into the hem, to make the robes hang better, enhancing their gravity to enhance the gravitas of the Venerable Primate. Hah! He had never felt less venerable, with the new king openly contemptuous of all outside his imported coterie. No. Gravity, gravitas, would no longer do.

“These robes,” he said to his dresser, “do not meet the moment.”

“Yes, the times are changed,” said the dresser discreetly. “Ex officio, you can wear a military coat, but...”

“Indeed,” replied the Archbishop. “But. And state mourning for the old king is out of the question.” 

“Perhaps something of a more ambassadorial style would suit, with your insignia of office. The king is technically not your direct superior, so it would be quite proper.”

“An excellent idea,” said the Archbishop. “An ambassador of the people, meeting with the new king in a spirit of constructive accommodation. See to it at once.”

But he feared that he might not long survive the coronation.

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A shorter version of this story appeared on Crap Mariner’s 100 word story weekly challenge.
Image credit: Jo Naylor (modified)

Box

“Eli and I are getting married!” the young woman said excitedly. “We’ll always be together.”

“‘Always’ is a long time, Liesl,” her great-grandfather gently chided. “They say that with modern medicine you might reach my age, and have another century still. You can forget a lot in that time.”

“Eli says we should never—”

“He's right,” he said shortly. After a while, he stood and reached down from a high shelf an ornamental wooden box.  He held it for a moment, considering.

“I want you to have this,” he said at last. “It’s glued shut, so it won’t be opened on a whim. But one day, long after I’m gone, you must open it.”

And one day, she did.

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In many countries, today is Holocaust Memorial Day.

Christmas among the Desert Fathers

Abba Jerome went to visit Abba Macarius. “A young monk has told me of a new custom in the cities,” said Abba Macarius. “They call it ‘Christmas’, but I cannot say how it concerns our Lord.”

“Show me this custom,” said Abba Jerome.

“I shall give you this rock,” said Abba Macarius, “for at Christmas people give things to each other.”

“So shall I give you this rock in return,” said Abba Jerome.

“Then they have a meal together,” said Abba Macarius, and in silence they ate their daily fragment of dry bread dipped in olive oil.

And so they celebrated Christmas.

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To appear at Crap Mariner’s 100 Word Story Challenge.

50 words

Hi there! Don't go!

Please, not just yet. You've only just picked me up.

I know, fifty words isn't much, but still, it's home to me.

Linger a while, won't you?

You can go back and reread, I'd like that.

Well, that's the whole story, see you again sometime?

Bye.

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Drums

Gad, the heat! And the drums, always the drums. The Colonel stood stiffly on the verandah, dressed in full leathers and a pink tutu, because dammit, one had to keep up standards. He rang to summon tea, then remembered that the native servants had all left weeks before, when the rains had not come. He glanced toward the inert computer in the corner, its power supply burnt out. Was the network still running out there, were the others still hanging on? The natives would know. They always knew. If only he knew what the drums were saying, the talking drums.

Image credit: eatswords