It was minuscule

Not at all big

I could easily have be hidden

By the leaf of a fig

Yet she made objection

An unholy fuss

Because some kid dropped a pretzel

Next to her seat on the bus



“. . . so it shall be,” the king declared.

“But Your Majesty,” the chancellor objected.

“There is no rebuttal. I have spoken,” the monarch snapped. “Take him away.”

So it was that Sir Hubert, chancellor of the realm, was sent to labour in the most despicable toils to be found in the kingdom. He had really brought it upon himself. He had time and again reduced the standard of living of the common folk of the land in favour of his own cronies’ interests. Now, he would have to live on the pay and conditions of the everyday man.



King Alfor III had died two years before. His son had been off exploring far off lands, and had just recently returned to find out about his father’s demise. In his absence, the land had been watched over by an uneasy coalition of nobles, but rivalries had put Pandia at the brink of civil war. Now, perhaps, that could be averted and the country returned to its former greatness.

“Alfor will now make his profession, and be anointed our leader,” Halifin the Mage announced.

Eight thousand eager eyes locked onto the tall, slender man who now took to the platform.

“I, Alfor son of Alfor, do profess and declare that I am of true blood of the Pandian people, and rightful heir to Alfor, the son of Alfor, the son of Alfor.”

With that Halifin poured oil on the head of the man, and placed a bronze crown upon his head. “All hail Alfor the Fourth, Lord of Pandia.”

There was a mighty cheer from the crowd.

Alfor, or should I say Anfwin son of Orry, leaned over to the mage and whispered, “Can I have that sandwich you promised me, now?”

“Soon, Lord,” the new chief advisor said with a grin. “Soon.”