When father got back, he didn’t look relieved, as usual. He looked grim. His face was pale, almost gray, and as for his eyes, they were worst of all. They were dull, empty, like a lake that watches a storm pass just by it, without even raising a breeze. When Mother saw him, she turned pale, and said in a gasping sort of voice, “Oh Lan, the cow?” He looked at her for a second, then nodded, and said in a hoarse choking voice, “And the chickens.” Of course it was always a risk, but one never really expected it. Every day, every man in the town went to the marketplace and drew lots on whose animals would go. This time it was ours.
We had been under siege for weeks, but it seemed like years. We were under siege not from an army, but a dragon. Every man with a suit of armor that actually buckled (which was few indeed) had already faced it; the last had gone a week ago, and turned into overdone steak. The townspeople had discussed the unarmored men facing it, but had given it up as hopeless. So every day one more family was robbed of their living to satisfy the dragon’s hunger.
Well I’d had enough of it, I wasn’t going to stand by and watch any longer, waiting for hunger to waste us till we could stand no more, but died in the streets.
The first part of course was to find out everything I could about dragons. They were rare. A man was lucky to see one in a lifetime, or rather, unlucky. Very unlucky.
The best thing to do was go to what book collector’s house. He had been a secretive old man, talking to few except when he had to. But he had talked to me, and when he left to go to some far off country I couldn’t remember the name of (Hackelmoo???), he had left me permission read his books, providing it went unknown. He had a large library in a time when books were few and a man was lucky to own more than a Bible. Most of the men in our town didn’t even own these. They read out of their neighbors.
There was only one book on dragons which I could find. It was thick and dusty, sitting in a forgotten corner. I suppose I had better set in order everything I learned from it:
They had no vulnerable spots on their underbellies as the stories said except, in the rare occasion of losing a scale. Their eyes were the weak spot, but there was a catch to this, as I had expected. The fact is, it’s extremely difficult to pierce a creature’s eye when it’s made up entirely of pupil and therefore always watching you. They didn’t have any color in their in their eyes. They were narrow but wide slits perfect for spotting anything moving within who knew how far. The easiest way to kill a dragon is to extinguish its flame, everyone knew that, but was it even possible? And, if it was possible, was it realistic?
There was only one way to find out. I tried to bolster my failing courage. After all I was only a fourteen year old boy going out to fight a half legendary beast with knowledge I had scraped from an ancient book in a crazy old man’s library, a man who many people said was a sorcerer of the worst kind, that spent his time visiting through mysterious portals to other sorcerers.
There were no more swords in the city, except the sword of Sweeney. It hung in the town hall, and it was said to be extraordinarily sharp. Getting it was simple enough; all I had to do after that was get out of the town.
I managed it, by slipping past a guard and lowering myself down. I had always been known as stealthy, or sneaky as some people put it (the rude people).
So here I was, outside the safe, or, safer confines of the town with nothing but the sword of some half forgotten midget warrior. Oh boy was this going to be fun. Right, fun, think of it positively, you’ll be less scared. Yeah right.
I crept over to the side of the town that dragon was supposed to be roosting, or however the heck they sleep (the book hadn’t told me). Maybe they hung upside down from their toes. No, that was highly unlikely. Anyway, I crept over there, and started looking around. I found it, in a manner of speaking, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say it found me. It was about five to ten minutes before dawn, so all the people in the town had the pleasure of seeing me get chased halfway around the town, screaming like a newborn babe. Not the proudest moment of my life. I did however, at least have a plan.
The book had told me that dragons like a nice long run before a meal, but if they saw that their prey was getting ahead, they caught it in a spurt, rushing ahead. So I had reserved my energy for a final spurt right in front of the lake, hoping that its momentum would tumble it over the edge. That side of the lake was a bit of a cliff. And it worked. At least, part of my plan worked. Unfortunately I hadn’t thought of the fact that I would be directly in front of the dragon when it fell in the lake.
I was half dead when I had untangled myself from underneath the dragon and kicked my way up to the top of the lake. If no one thought that it was “a deed of bravery unrivalled by anything else in the land” or any rot like that, they at least thought it was moderately brave, and a few even thanked me.
And that my children, is the original tale of Darren Dragon-slayer, warped and exaggerated as it has become.

Hope you liked it!

Okay, I didn’t get this post up at noon like I usually do, but at least it’s still Monday, right?

Today- or, rather, Tonight, I’m posting a story poem (there’s probably a way better name for it than that, but cut me some slack, I’m tired.)

So, enjoy it! (If, that is, you can get my inane babbling out of your head.)

Wordweaver

“Wordweaver, Wordweaver, wilt spin me a tale?”

But Wordweaver’s old; His ears are grown deaf,

And though he is kindly, can’t hear the request.

“Wordweaver, Wordweaver, old though ye be,

Canst thou but write a song now, for me?”

Wordweaver’s fingers were once nimble and spry,

Not so now, they are wrinkled and dry.
“Wordweaver, Wordweaver, if thou now died,

Who would be left to help woo me a bride?”

Wordweavers old, but his eyes are still bright,

They laugh at the merry youth in this plight.

Wordweavers feeble, and Wordweavers frail,

So Wordweaver gives him his song and his tale.

A new Wordweaver stands, the old one reclines,

Peace in his breath, and peaceful he dies.
“Wordweaver, Wordweaver, wilt spin me a tale?”

So a tale does he tell, aye, long does he sing,

He tells of a wordweaver, the wordweaver king.

This story was inspired by a lesson in Mrs. Morecraft’s School of Elocution and Composition where Mrs. Morecraft gave us examples of interesting starts for storys. I hope you enjoy!

The elephants were on parade again. They always went on parade on Tuesdays, because king Broccoli was obsessed with parades. Parades and elephants. Maybe I should explain. Hugh (that’s the chief counselor) told me to write down what happened, so here it is.

Like I said, it was a Tuesday and the elephants were on parade at king Broccoli’s orders. And I was leading them. That’s right. Me. The kitchen boy. For some reason, animals had a strange tendency to do whatever I wanted them to, that’s how I happened to be leading them. They looked bored marching down the same streets they marched down every Tuesday, almost as bored as the people that dutifully lined the streets, and cheered half heartedly. King Broccoli was on the first elephant, just like usual, smiling benevolently. Everything was perfectly normal. Then, Broc (the first elephant) decided he was sick of routine, and the world was thrown into confusion. He reared like a horse, and then swung his tusks back and forth. The other elephants followed suit, people everywhere yelled and ran in circles. Then, everyone stopped, because king Broccoli was screaming in the highest pitch anyone had ever heard. Even the elephants stopped, and listened because it was the strangest noise any of us had ever heard from a thirty year old man, let alone a king.  After what seemed like an eternity, the windows broke in all the near houses, and king Broccoli opened his eyes and stopped screaming. Everyone stared at him, and then somewhere, a kid started laughing. It caught, and rippled around the crowd till everyone was laughing. King Broccoli sat on his elephant, fuming. I turned it around slowly, and started leading it back to the palace. Over half the people followed us, imitating him and jeering. We were about halfway there, when he lost it and started yelling like a madman, screaming that it was all my fault, and that he was going to hang me, chop my head off and flog me to death. Just about then someone started shouting “Down with the tyrant! Make the boy the king! Down with the tyrant!” the rest of the crowd took it up, and king Broccoli turned kind of white and sick looking. And so it was, that at the age of fifteen, through no particular merit of my own, I became the king of Ceggunt.

So, this week along with my story, I’ve decided to take a poll. This poll is to decide what name best fits last weeks story.

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Anyway, here’s this weeks story. Enjoy!

The boy who stole the dragon’s scale

“But you can’t.” the girl said, pushing her thick hair back with the hopeless air of one pushing back the tide. It fell over her face again.

“I will.”

Bruck said this with absolute certainty, his jaw set forward. He had a jutting jaw, protruding even. And everyone knew, what Bruck Marten said when he set his jaw, he meant.

“How?”

“I don’t know, but I will.”

I didn’t doubt him, not for one second. I was only a kid of seven at the time, but everyone in the whole town, heck, probably the whole world, knew that Bruck Marten could do anything he set to.

No one liked Bruck back then. He was a skinny ten year old, stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be. The only reason I followed him around so much, was this; one time he’d knocked down a kid who’d been trying to make me give him money “for his birthday” with his birthday five months past.

“What are you going to do Bruck?” I was almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I’m going to take a scale from old man dragon’s tail.” I stared at him, suddenly having doubts about his sanity. Then I realized who I was looking at, all doubt left my mind. “You’re a good kid.” He said, seeing that I believed him.

“I’ll tell you what you can do to help me, don’t tell anyone what I’m going to do. I wouldn’t have told her-” He gestured at the retreating form of the girl, “-except that I needed a candle and her father is a candle maker.” I nodded. “I’ll not tell a soul, even mother.”

“Good. I’ll have it tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t sleep that night, not a wink. When I came down for breakfast, my mother thought I was sick, and almost wouldn’t let me go out. Once I got out I ran all the way to town, there was a huge crowd gathered around Bruck’s house. Apparently, every man, woman and child in the town had turned out. I reached the front of the crowd after about a quarter hour of shoving, gasping and bruised. Bruck stood on the roof, in his hand was a dragon scale. Everyone knew what it was, old man dragon was the last of his kind in the world. For a hundred years kings had sent knights to fetch a scale from old man dragon’s tail. None had ever come back. It was a way of executing disfavored or disgraced knights. For a hundred years shadow-men* had vowed that they, and no other would take it. And now, a mere boy with nothing more than a candle, and a bit of imp** blood in his veins had done the impossible. He never told anyone how he did it, not even me. And no one ever found out, to the end of existence.

*Shadow-men (see imps)

**Imps are generally the same stature as humans, and bare a great resemblance but are nearly always built slimmer. The name Shadow-men is derived from the fact that imps are remarkably stealthy. Imps and humans frequently intermarry.

A church friend of ours recently started a business selling scarves, shawls and the like. These things are so unbelievably gorgeous! Unique, one of a kind scarves that you won’t see again. One of a kind, people! That means hurry! And here are pictures of the lovely creators themselves! So hurry over and grab yours, and remember, only forty-six days till Christmas!