Errand

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It wasn’t the most comfortable camp, but it seemed secure. Fallen timber framed the space on three sides and there was considerable concealment by a pinewood thicket on the fourth. A fire, however, was out of the question as it would negate the tree cover.

The day had started well with light-hearted chatter as the companions took to the road. Noon found them having a light meal by a brook side and it looked as if the journey was going to be an easy one.

It wasn’t long after lunch, however, that they found the road blocked my an inexplicably fallen tree. As they tried to work their way around it they were beset by bandits. The party gave as well as they took, but were in the end forced to make a fighting withdrawal into the surrounding woodland. That is how they came to be in this small enclosure.

“That’s the last time I ever let you talk me into a side quest,” Theos the Cleric said to Balwyn.

“How could I have known bandits would be after the artefact we were asked to deliver?”

“What is it that we are carrying anyway?” Tristen the Archer asked.

“Let me take a peek,” Balwyn said, opening the cloth sack.

“Well?” Theos prompted.

“It’s just an old hammer.”

“Hammer? Is it a war-hammer or magic?”

“No, just a worn-out old hammer. Oh, wait a minute. Ah, the hammer is wrapped in a wadge of wanted posters of guess who.”

“So do you think they just want to stop people from finding out about the reward?” Tristen asked.

“I imagine so,” Balwyn said. “Let’s give this a miss,” he suggested tossing the fabled Hammer of All Creativity into the underbrush.


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Art

Photo by Marco Bianchetti on Unsplash

Art sat on the ledge and tried to ponder the meaning of it all. What actually is the point? he wondered. After all, all I ever do is sit around a studio all day. The boredom is starting to do my head in. I know that some people say I’m vital to the enterprise, but how can that be? It’s not like I’m OOAK. Now, he’s cool, but me I’m just plain old Art.

He glanced down at the workbench beneath him and then remembered the words of the administrator who said, and I quote, “Having art in this college is vital in defining who we are.” That memory alone made Art decide that jumping wasn’t worth it. He would just have to suck it up and hope that he really did make a difference.


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The Littlest Fisher (Part 4)

Danshe went to her usual spot the next morning and was surprised to find a large rowboat had washed up into her tidepool in the night. Though it was largely submerged it still had become a receptacle of a large amount of seawater and yet had enough freeboard remaining to trap over thirty meal-sized fish inside. There was no way the little girl could pull the boat to the ledge by herself, nor was it practical to extract the fish in its present position so she ran off to get the lighthouse men to help her.

A short while later the boat had been retrieved and there was enough food to see all of the islanders through for several days.

Danshe then ran to tell the redhead about the windfall. When she arrived on the porch however she found a note attached to the door. Dear Danshe, Thank you for restoring my faith in people again. You are a very special lady. Please accept this small gift to remember me by. All the best, Cealia. Next to the note was a silver chain with a starfish on it.

Danshe then noticed the redhead, that she now knew was called Cealia on the beach with four seals. The girl immediately started to run to see her. Her path led her over a couple of dunes, and while she was climbing the larger of these she momentarily lost sight of the lady. When she creased the dune the beach was empty, but she could see five seals swimming out into the open sea. As she watched she could swear that one of them turned back to her and waved a flipper before diving out of sight.

Danshe never saw Cealia again, and three days later the weather broke and a relief boat arrived on the island.


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The Shakedown

Photo by Anton Atanasov on Unsplash

“The least you guys could do is leave me some,” Flopsy begged.

“Listen here ‘Long Ears’, you know the deal. Your hutch is on our patch, so you gotta pay protection.”

“But Boss Crow never said you’d demand so much,” Flopsy said despondently.

“That’s ‘Mr. Crow’ to you, ‘Buck Tooth,” and Boss Crow’s got overheads, so if you know what’s good for you you’ll suck it up and be quiet.”

The Crow protection racket was infamous on the entire farm. You had to pay out to the birds, or maybe your hutch or chicken run might ‘accidentally’ have its latch left open when the Foxy Gang was around. Flopsy knew he was better off with the birds than the foxes, but it didn’t make his despise Boss Crow any less.


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Some Good News and Some Bad

Tom and Lauren were getting settled into their “Island Getaway” bungalow. They had only a short while before been dropped off by seaplane at a peaceful lagoon. It was now time to check out their surroundings.

As Lauren was taking some photos from the veranda, Tom said, “I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is we have a can-opener and an entire crate of tinned goods.”

“That sounds promising,” Lauren said. “What’s the bad news?”

“Most of the cans are coconut milk, coconut curry, and coconut oil.”

“You have to be kidding. We are on an island with thousands of coconuts, and the pantry is made up of coconut products.”

“I guess we should been suspicious of the too good to be to be true price,” Tom reflected.

“Not to mention that the company is called Gilligan Enterprises.”


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The Cut

Daniel Taylor scanned the team list which was posted outside the locker room. He blinked twice and then read it again more slowly. There was no question about it; he had been cut from the squad.

He was determined to be the better man about, so sucked up his courage and went to see the coach.

“Coach Wilson,” Daniel said in a medium tone as he knocked on the frame of the open office door.

“Taylor, what can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to say that I appreciate the chance to have tried out, and wanted to ask if there is anything that I might do to improve and have a better chance next season.”

“Taylor, I appreciate your thanks, and as far as how to do better as a wide receiver in the future. . . . Um, have you ever considered badminton?”


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All A Matter of Perspective

Flatmates Dave and Tony had a simple agreement. Each Saturday Tony would buy a five pack of doughnuts on the way back from his run and put them in the kitchen. Dave was welcome to share them, with the only stipulation being that he leave the last one for Tony. This arrangement worked well enough for about a month. Then, one morning after earlier having two each, Tony went to make a cup of coffee and to have the last doughnut.

“Dave, did you eat the last doughnut?” he shouted irritably.

“No,” his roommate replied.

“Then where did it go?”

“You ate it,” Dave responded.

“When?”

“This morning at breakfast,” Dave said.

“I never did!”

“Yes, you did. You see, when you brought them in and then went for your shower, I opened the box and reversed the order of the doughnuts. So, you ate the last one at breakfast, and I helped myself to the first one a little while ago. It’s all a matter of perspective.”


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Getting Your Goat

“This part if the journey is never easy,” Trenour said.

“Then why do we come this way?  The plateau path is a lot more pleasant than this constant up and down road through the hills,”  Wylder challenged.

“The plateau leaves us exposed.  I would far rather deal with hills than the nomads.”

“Are you telling me that you have dragged us to the back of beyond because you are afraid of a bunch of goat herders?” Wylder mocked.

“Bunch of ‘goat herders?’  They are a bunch of goat herders that overran the Hurnian Empire.  We don’t want to mess with them, especially of open ground.”

“But we have good armour and the best weapons money can buy,” Wylder observed.  “Surely we would have the upper hand.”

“Let’s not find out,” Trenour said gravely.

After about a half an hour, the pair crested a long rise to come face to face with about a thousand goats.  Scattered among the herd were about seventy nomads armed with staves and spears.  Three others approached on sturdy donkeys and began to nock short composite bows. 

“What do you think of our ‘goat herders now?’” Trenour asked, dropping his sword and raising his hands.

“Goat herders?  What goat herders, I only see fierce nomads,” Wylder gulped.


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Impetuous

Colin couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard, but he most definitely had to go check it out. According to his brother Hugh, who had heard it from Andre the stable boy, a barbarian warrior had recently arrived in the town, and she, yes she, was staying at the tavern. But to top it all off, she was reported to have bare breasts!

Colin rushed through the streets, and pushed past the throng of young men that had gathered to gawk. He soon regretted his impetuous move, as she reached out and grabbed him by the collar. She dragged him across the table, and began to full-on kiss him, tongue and all.

He squirmed to free himself from her grasp, and fell gasping on the floor. “Bear breath! They had said bear breath.”


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Never Return Home

It didn’t take long. Everything was over in less than five minutes. Ellis had bought himself a place on the mail coach and settled in for the journey to the town of his youth. He had been away for twenty years, and now after a career abroad that seemed twice that long, he looked forward to a well earned retirement.

His first awareness that something was amiss was when a tree fell across the path of the coach and it jerked to a sudden stop. Then when four masked men stepped in front of the horses all became clear. A weaselly built man demanded the cash box and the mails, and when the driver took longer than he thought necessary, the weasel shot a crossbow bolt into his shoulder.

It was then that instinct and muscle memory kicked in. Ellis swung open the coach door and rode it outwards, taking a flying roll onto the roadway. Coming to his feet, he loosed to daggers from his belt, piercing the chests of a bandit each. He then drew knife from his boot and embedded it in the forehead of a third.

The weasel was still desperately trying to reload his crossbow as Ellis snatched the throwing knife from third bandit’s skull and adroitly took out the weasel’s throat.

Ellis then went and tended to the driver’s wound and pondered if it was every possible for a mercenary to “go home.”


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