The goal of this workshop is to give the participants an opportunity to share honest, friendly feedback that can lead to a well-critiqued and edited anthology to be proud of. Remember – Your work may never be seen by the devoted readers, agents or publishers who are looking for good writers, if their attention is lost before they get to your story. It’s in everyone’s best interest to help each other have fun and create stories the readers can’t put down.
Genre: Rom-Com. Blech, my least favorite genre.
Location: Under a Bridge. Has to be predominantly featured.
Object: Must have a passing mention but must play a part.
A Dental Connection.
By Wayne Hills
An eccentric dentist and his lovelorn assistant fall in love while performing oral surgery on an unusual patient.
Or: A horse walks into a dentist’s office. The receptionist says, “Why the long face?”
They worked through the night, and well into dawn of the next day. Preparing the pontics for the proper alignment and placement of the span meant to close the edentulous gap. In order for the bridge to be perfect, the doctor was their only hope.
Dr. Mark Zahnarzt was the leading dentist in the region. An introverted genius, when not treating patients he kept to himself experimenting with the dentition of mammals of all kinds. He was devoted to the care of gums and teeth. The fact that they were attached to living humans was merely a necessary annoyance.
His assistant, Ethel Jungfer, hadn’t gone on a date during the decade she worked for him. She only had eyes for the eccentric doctor, who in turn only had eyes for the mouths set before him.
Until the fateful day their office received an unexpected patient.
The door burst open at four O’clock, the time Ethel usually closed for the day; and Dr. Zahnarzt began experimenting with his anatomical models.
“I’m sorry to barge in ma’am. My name’s Wes Kuhhirt, you’ve got to help me.” The man stopped just inside the doorway, he held a weatherworn Stetson in his clenched fists.
Ethel said, “I’m sorry sir, but the office is closed.”
“But it’s an emergency, you’re our only hope.”
Hearing the commotion, the doctor opened the door to his private office. “Our hope, what do you mean? I see only you in my reception area.”
Ethel turned, “I tried to stop him doctor. I know you don’t like to be disturbed when you’re tinkering.”
“It’s all right Miss Jungfer; he needs dental assistance, that’s why we’re here.”
In truth, Dr. Zahnarzt didn’t care about the man with the faded jeans and tattered flannel shirt; it was the urgency in his voice that excited him. A dental emergency, something other than filling cavities and applying tooth whitener just walked in. He had to find out what it was.
“Thank you sir, I’m mighty grateful.” Accompanied by a jingle of spurs, Wes spun on his boot-heels, and walked out the door. They barely had enough time to look at each other in disbelief when they heard the clopping.
“Thanks again doc.” Kuhhirt said as he returned leading a miniature horse behind him.
Ethel shrieked as she ran and hid behind her employer. “You can’t bring that filthy animal in here!”
“Please, this is urgent. Sebastian here’s got a sweet tooth for candy apples and it got the best of him. His teeth are practically rotted out and we’ve got a show for some sick kids tomorrow. They’ll be mighty upset if we don’t make it. His smile is one of his signature tricks. Look.”
Wes patted the horse and said, “Smile for the good folks boy.” In response to the command, Sebastian shook his head and lifted his front lip. Ethel shuddered at the sight of the decayed incisors. What was left of the center pair were black and badly chipped.
Something sparked in Dr. Zahnarzt that he hadn’t felt in years; the thrill of a new challenge.
“Of course we’ll help. Ethel, prepare my instruments for surgery.”
Ethel’s heart skipped a beat when she heard him say her name. She couldn’t recall him ever using her first name before. The expression on his face, the excitement in his voice, he was different somehow. He was happy. Eager to be able to work with her secret love, she quickly dismissed her fear.
Wes helped the doctor set up the dental chair to hold Sebastian and returned to the waiting room. They had removed the chair’s arms and opened it flat. With Sebastian secured to the cushions, they raised it to its highest point allowing access underneath to perform the surgery. After rigging the nitrous oxide mask over the horse’s muzzle, they were able to survey their task.
Dr. Zahnarzt said, “The outer incisors appear solid enough; we’ll remove the damaged center two. I’ll need you to work with me underneath him to build the bridge to span the gap.”
Although Ethel was excited to be in close proximity to him, she had reservations about the procedure. “It won’t work doctor. The amount of material we’ll need to use will be too heavy.”
“We’ll have to be economical Ethel.” He used her name again. She felt flush.
Together they worked under the jaws of the sleeping animal, meticulously constructing the new teeth. They checked each piece as they fit them into the horse’s mouth.
Dr. Zahnarzt carefully shaved bits of porcelain from the prosthetics. He’d never made anything this big before, but thanks to years spent in his private lab, he had a plentiful supply of the resources needed to make the bridge.
Ethel carefully set each giant tooth onto a small scale used to weigh gold for human fillings and caps.
As the hours passed, and the work continued, their hands would periodically touch as each piece was weighed, modified, and checked again.
It might have been the late hour, maybe it was the lack of sleep, more likely it was the leaking nitrous oxide canister slowly filling the room with laughing gas, whatever the cause, the tooth fairy borrowed a pair of cupid’s arrows, and shot them squarely into the couple’s hearts.
At one point, Sebastian briefly awoke and whinnied, this surprised Ethel causing her to jump into the doctor’s arms. They laughed at the absurdity of it, their eyes met, he leaned down and kissed her. Their relationship would never again be simply doctor and assistant.
The procedure successfully completed, they were holding hands as Wes led a groggy Sebastian out of the office. “I’m eternally grateful. Those kids are gonna get a hoot of a show thanks to you two.”
“No, thank you Wes.” Ethel said as she looked at the doctor. “I think we’ll be putting on a little show of our own. Don’t you doctor?”
“Please, call me Mark.” He said as he closed the office door.
Tears of the Class Clown.
By Wayne Hills.
Emmett Wynn was the funniest kid in school. Shorter than the others, he’d learned to rely on his wit to get into cliques that would have otherwise ignored him. Always ready with a quip, pratfall or mimed gesture to make the class crack up.
He loved school, not for the lessons or comraderie of his fellow students; but for the safe refuge it provided from his home life. His alcoholic parents neglected him and abused him. His father beat the young boy, saying he was “only half a child, a runt who would never grow into a full man.” Whenever Emmett cried, the thrashings would become harsher. His mother’s advice, “grin and bear it,” became his motto for dealing with life. He learned to smile and take the pain, to hide within himself, even as he absorbed the blows.
All through his education, he was always either first in line by height, or one from the end by name. Until a foreign exchange student, Chizuko Ying transferred in during his senior year in High School.
Slightly shorter than Emmett, he had her all to himself when lined up by size. She was his private audience to entertain. Emmett’s outgoing personality, and well-practiced gags, quickly won over the new classmate. He amused her with jokes that his classmates had long grown tired of. She was a blank slate. Beijing may have had comedians, but they didn’t know American grade-school humor. Ancient knock-knock jokes were gold, although some were lost in translation, Chizuko never understood, “Orangen’t you glad I didn’t say banana.”
Emmett’s locker, just across the hall from their homeroom, was close enough to their place in line, that he could leave it open until it was time to file in for roll call. He’d keep his tricks there to amaze Chizuko, juggling bean-bags, balloons to tie into complex shapes, a never-ending ribbon of colored scarves that he would pull from various hiding places. She would laugh and cover her mouth in the feminine way that her culture demanded.
When sorted by surname however, there was one person that stood between them, Billy Yantzee. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed natural athlete; Billy was king of the school. And a bit of a jerk. He reminded Emmett of what his own father would have been like in school. Everything handed to him because of his popularity, no empathy for those not blessed with the natural gifts of size and strength. Billy was a foot taller than Emmett, whenever he tried to catch Chizuko’s eye, Billy would simply turn his body to block out his smaller classmate.
On the day the senior prom was announced, Emmett hatched a plan to ask her to go. He’d cover the inside of his locker with colorful polka-dot wrapping paper. In the top, well out of sight, he’d hide a surprise.
First period was homeroom; the students would line up and wait for the teacher to open the door. Emmett’s plan was to get there early and ask her before they went in.
When she arrived he’d say, “knock-knock.”
She would reply as she always did, “Who is there.”
Hey, maybe that’s why she doesn’t get the banana joke; Chinese don’t believe in contractions, he thought.
He’d deliver the set up line, “I’m going to the prom with…”
She’d repeat the line followed by the requisite, “… who?” She would be asking him out! He’d pop out the flowers, and her heart would be his. It was brilliant.
This gave him all day to bask in glory of his success. She’d be enamored of his wit. She’d bat her long black lashes as she hid her mouth giggling that perfect high-pitched sound that he loved to hear. It made his stomach feel kind of funny when she did it, he didn’t know why. He just knew he never wanted it to stop. He even had follow up knock-knock set-ups.
He’d say, “I’m riding in a limo with…,”
“I’m dancing every dance with…,”
“I’m getting naked with….” Of course, this one he only thought about at home in the shower. He’d never be so crude to ask her out loud.
That morning, as the other students slowly filled the spaces behind him, he heard her familiar laughter approaching from behind. His broad smile of delight melted when he saw Billy holding Chizuko’ s hand as they rounded the corner down the hall.
Billy, freakin’, Yantzee? How could she go for that jerk?
The couple stopped in line by Emmitt. She gave his rival a kiss on the cheek, Billy smacked her ass, which set off another wave of giggling. He shot Emmett a wink and walked toward his place at the opposite end of the line. Emmett smiled at her. Chizuko lowered her hand to reveal a smile, although her’s wasn’t hiding pain within, it was genuine happiness.
“Knock-knock, Emmitt.” She asked.
“Don’t say my name, just the knocks.” He corrected her gently so that she delivered the line properly. If you’re going to try to be funny, follow the goll-darn rules.
“Oh, sorry. Knock-knock.” She repeated.
Not really wanting to play along, his heart beginning to crack, afraid of what her set up might be. “Who is there?” Purposely un-contracting the, ‘who’s’, hoping there was still a chance to capture her heart with her own words. She didn’t catch the attempt.
“Chizuko going to the formal dance with William.” The accent that he had found so endearing now sounded like dubbed anime.
Her statement cut into Emmett. He fought to keep the smile on his face as the tears welled. He pushed them back, grinning harder to keep them at bay.
“Here at school he’d finally felt the pain like he did at home. Only this was internal, her words, like the punches from his father, hurt him but he couldn’t let it show.
Keeping the lips pinned upwards into the smile he’d been training his entire childhood to hold, He crossed the hall and opened his locker. Chizuko saw the colorful paper and her expression changed to wonder when he pulled the magician’s bouquet from its hiding place.
“Knock-knock.” Emmett said.
Emmett bit the corner of his upturned lip as the pressure built behind his eyes. “I’m happy for…”
When she asked, “…who?” He handed her the flowers and said:
“For you Chizuko. I’m happy for you.”
12_Riding the Odds
Quod, a troll working in the dangerous world of professional dragon riding, takes a deadly chance to be with the human he loves.
“Keep moving troll. Too close to human entrance.” The ogre’s voice made the ground vibrate beneath Quod’s feet. He eyed the giant.
“Eegah, there’s no one else here. Drop the act. We still have a deal, don’t we?”
The ogre, four times Quod’s height, leaned close.
“We do not troll. Bargain is with human. No care for your kind. Move along.”
Riding the top bull-dragon on the professional circuit was enough of a life risk; Quod didn’t need to add any more danger to his day by arguing with the dim-witted guard. He turned away from Eegah and entered the paddock under the, ‘Mythics Only’ sign.
Quod walked the stables, looking for the human Wyrm-master that held his fate, and his heart, in her tiny hands. He found Tina near Rivergard’s stall. No rider had completed the full three sequoids on the country’s number one rated dragon and lived to collect the purse, which was determined by complex mathematical formulas that set the fluctuating betting lines. The bright red dragon’s muscles–nurtured on the flesh of the fallen–rippled under his thick scales. As was the custom of the dome, he feasted on the blood of his kills. Trolls were expendable, but a top dragon was better than gold.
“Tina!” Quod called her away from the stall. Rider superstition prevented him from daring to get close. Allowing a dragon to become familiar with your scent was considered bad luck. They would need all the help they could get.
She rushed to him, scanning the area to make sure they were alone, and hugged him tightly. Her small stature allowed the lovers to stand eye level with each other.
“Quod, are you sure about this? You could be killed.”
“I hope so. That’s a key part of the plan. You just have to take care of me afterwards.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
Quod pursed his thick blue lips. “The Witch of the Wood’s instructions were very precise. As long as we do the math properly, I’ll be okay.” Even as he spoke, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or Tina.
They needed to escape this life–both slaves to the game–if winning a fortune betting on his own demise would set them free, he had to try.
Tina reached into the front pocket of her overalls, producing a small black vial and two pocket watches. She handed the vial to him, the voice of the old crone ran in her mind.
Sixty pro through sixty post,
The time to steal life from death,
Fate suspended through love’s boast.
“Quod, remember her directions. You have to drink this at exactly the right time.”
“I’ll figure it out. Be ready for me. I won’t be able to help you.”
His part of the plan would be easy. Simple arithmetic, drink some poison, ride a fire breathing dragon, then die. What could be simpler? Tina had the hard part; place the bet that will give them the money they need to flee and then bring him back to life. No matter the outcome, she’d still be alive.
If their plan was discovered, he’d be executed and fed to the ogres, tainted and unfit for the champions of the dome. She was human, and even though she was looked down upon by her own kind–-ridiculed as a midget, or ‘dwarf’–she was still one of them. At worst, she would be banned from working as a dragon keeper. But she’d be forgiven. People would assume the troll had used an evil spell to lure her into an inter-species, relationship. Why else would a woman, even a malformed one, wish to mix with a sub-human?
“Quod, you ride last tonight. Please be careful.”
“Tina, you know I can’t be. I have to die, remember? Just hold off on the bet. It has to be placed at the last second. The odds have to be long, or it won’t be worth it. I have to make them believe I will survive the ride.”
Quod had explained it all before. The odds-makers use easily measurable factors: the speed of the flight, the height off the blood spattered dirt of the arena floor, the weights of the rider and dragon; they factor in variables of skill and experience of the pair intimately linked in a ballet of life and death, to set the fluctuating betting lines.
“I’ll make sure Rivergard and I play our part.” Said Quod
She handed one of the pocket watches to Quod. “We have to start these together, as the witch said.”
Two as one, set the hands,
Tick for tock must be done.
They embraced again, one long last kiss before Quod walked to his death.
The evening’s first rider, Fungl, didn’t live to see the end of the first sequoid, known as The Bucking. One foot slipped from the stirrups, allowing the flying beast full control of the flight. It was a deadly mistake. A simple full-body shiver, like a Minotaur shaking water from its back, toppled the rider. The dragon sliced the falling troll in half with his razor-sharp tail. Less than halfway through the sixty-second run, the rider’s career, and life, were through.
The second, a troll named Truot, died during the Trigon phase.
From Quod’s vantage point, a quarter of the way up the thousand-foot-high dome, he watched the event’s penultimate ride. As Truot’s run progressed, Quod thought about the watching odds-makers, and how their decisions would affect Tina’s timing for the wager on his life.
Thirty seconds in, trumpets signaled the next phase, The Rising. Quod watched as Truot drew back on the dragon’s reins, while pushing forward on the stirrups strapped around its hind ankles. Pulling the animal into itself forced it to flap wildly in order to retain flight. Quod knew the speed of the climb would determine who was in control, the rider or the dragon. Odds changed, money was won and lost. With fifteen seconds left in the match, a final horn marked the time for capture of the Trigon.
Reaching the top of the dome, Truot released the pressure holding the flying serpent in check. The result was the most spectacular moment of the event. It was also the precursor to the most dangerous sequiod, The Plummet. Regrettably, Truot wouldn’t live to see its end.
Freed from the restraints on his body, the dragon arched his back, spread his wings and spewed a geyser of fire. The heat of the flame below his open wings caused the great beast to hover high above the hard earth, near the silver triangle of the Trigon, which was suspended at the pinnacle of the dome. As the mesmerized audience watched, Truot reached up to snatch the dangling icon. And missed.
Quod knew what was happening high above the breathless crowd. He watched helplessly as the dragon felt the sudden shift in the rider’s weight, spun, and dove. Truot was too high on the dragon’s back when The Plummet began. In his match, Quod knew this would be the moment Tina would be waiting for: the final betting line would be set, for or against, the rider’s survival.
Truot’s odds fell as the men setting the betting line dropped the chances of Truot surviving into the negative. In their eyes, his fate was already decided. They were usually right.
During The Plummet, riders normally leaned forward out of the airflow until below the height of the bucking chute. If they waited too long to pull out of the dive, the dragon will flip over onto its back and slam the rider into the earth. Truot never had that chance.
The scaled beast folded his, bat-like wings flat as he turned and easily shook his passenger. As they fell, the dragon flew circles around the arena, disgorging flames at Truot, roasting him alive. The troll hit the ground accompanied by cheers from the bloodthirsty crowd.
When the elven medic held a red flag over Truot’s blackened corpse, a mixture of cheers and groans sprang from the crowd.
Quod watched the traditional team of six unicorns parade Rivergard around the arena. Then pegasus-riding humans guided the great dragon into the chute as tufts of smoke and yellow-orange flames licked from his horned snout. Quod studied the giant screens that showed the current odds on his death.
A fanfare sounded One minute until the gate would open, beginning Quod’s first sequoid.He pulled the pocketwatch and vial from his breast pocket.
Sixty pro through sixty post…
Two as one, set the hands.
He drank the foul contents and pushed the small button on the side of the watch. Somewhere down in the betting pit, Tina had also started the countdown to his death.
Quod settled onto Rivergard’s hard scales, secured his stubby feet into the stirrups, and wrapped the reins around his right fist. His left hand would be free, as required by the sport’s rules, in order to grab the Trigon. Quod had to put on a good show to keep the odds low until The Plummet. Timing, and danger were intertwined. The betting line for his death had to be high. He had to put on the show of a lifetime, even if his life was in the balance.
The massive wrought iron gate opened releasing Rivergard from the pen. A ball of fire erupted from the horned demon’s maw as he leapt into flight. Holding tight to the reins, Quod forced the dragon down, circling low around the ring. Allowing the animal the freedom to kick his feet, while steering his head, made for a good show. It also demonstrated that the rider controlled the flight. In the open bleachers, at the lowest level of the arena, the sub-humans screamed their wagers in a dozen indecipherable tongues. Humans watched from their comfortable box seats, enclosed to protect them from the dragon’s flames or wayward disembodied troll parts.
The second sequoid began. Quod maneuvered the beast into position in the center of the ring, pulled back on its head, and pushed forward on the stirrups. The duo rose as great leather wings pushed them upward. Tina watched the boards and saw that his survival odds had increased. Demonstrating control over the flight showed he had a better chance of living to ride another day. Quod’s every move had to convey his power over the dragon in preparation for the final drop.
The start of the third sequiod marked the last 15 seconds of Quod’s life. He had to play this final act perfectly. Sitting upright, he released the reins and reached up with both hands for the Trigon. Rivergard, feeling the pressure of the stirrups slacken, stretched to his full size and let out a blast of flame that made the crowd gasp in fear. With both hands, Quod grabbed the prizeand released it from the clasp holding it in place.
Tina watched, along with the screaming throng, as Quod snatched the flailing reins from mid-air while Rivergard tucked his massive head and dove. All those around her were yelling in unison, chanting Quod’s name. He was more than just another rider, he was a God.
As Rivergard tucked in his wings and fell, the book-makers changed the betting line one last time. Fifty to one. No rider had ever had odds this high placed on his demise. They were virtually certain he would safely land the fire-breathing behemoth.
Tina grabbed the arm of a nearby leprechaun bet-taker and placed her wager. Although he couldn’t believe the amount of human money she was betting, he accepted the cash.
Knowing his final chance at controlling the dragon was near, Quod gently pushed on the right stirrup; the diving beast rolled as Quod blacked out.
Rivergard skimmed the arena floor. Quod dropped free of the dragon’s back and rolled along the ground. The crowd fell silent.
Tina held her breath as the ogre guards waddled out to pick up the fallen troll. The pegasus team corralled Rivergard through the exit chute as the elven medics checked on Quod.
As the red flag rose on the arena floor, Tina burst into tears. She ripped the winning marker from the hand of the confused leprechaun, and rushed back to the stables.
As Wyrm-master, one of her duties was to strip the food for victorious dragons. She would be the one in charge of feeding Quod to Rivergard. She paced near the arena gate, glancing apprehensively at time ticking across the face of the witch’s watch. Eegah carried Quod’s limp body into the stable and dropped it at her feet.
“I think him really dead.” Eegah held out his fat hand.
“That will be all, ogre. I’ll take care of him. And thank you.” Her voice cracked as she spoke.
“No thank. Just pay.”
The sack of coins seemed tiny in his palm. He turned and lumbered back into the arena, leaving Tina with her lifeless love.
Without bothering to ensure they were alone, she pulled the watch from his pocket.
Tick for tock must be done.
The watch was smashed; the hands bent and immobile.
Tina leaned back, remembering the final instructions the Dark Witch had given them.
Six times fifty, the time from death.
No greater, no lesser,
Else the spell be for naught.
She studied the ancient timepieces the woman in the woods had given them; they were no longer in sync. Tina alone knew the price of their freedom. Her very soul. Quod could never know she gave her eternal life for their mortal time together.
Her working second hand ticked the minutes by. Each tiny mark seemed to take too long to pass. No longer able to determine the exact timing, at the four-minute mark by her watch, she leaned to his lips. Blackened, bloody, lifeless. She caressed his scarred and muddy face. Other humans saw him as a hideous troll, a sub-human mythical animal. To Tina, he was the most handsome man in the world.
With 15 seconds left to the five-minute mark, she closed her eyes and kissed him. The sorceress didn’t say how long the kiss should be, Tina hoped–-prayed to all the Gods of good and evil–that she would hit that magic moment of Six by sixty.
She leaned back, holding tight to his callused hand, and prayed again.
Slowly, his dark green color began to return. His chest rose. Gently at first, but as her tears fell onto his cheeks, the rhythm became stronger.
Quod’s eyelids opened. His beautiful yellow eyes began to glow.
“Quod? Are you…” Her voice choked in her throat as the words caught.
“Tina, my love.” He squeezed her hand. “We’re free.”
My entry for the second round of the NYC Midnight Short Story challenge. I was given these parameters:
Heat 5 – Fantasy / Dancing / A repossessor.
Feel free to comment.
Synopsis: Eamon is a down-on-his-luck leprechaun working as a repossessor for the Great and Powerful Oz. At the risk of his own life, he must find a way to help the oppressed citizens of the Enchanted Forest.
“You leprechauny bastard, gimme back my shoes.”
With no choice but to comply, or be stomped into a puddle of green mush, Eamon returned the golden slippers to the dwarf.
“Aye lad,” Eamon said as he put them down. “Pay the Wizard his due or I’ll be coming again.”
As he turned to disappear into the cabin’s shadows, away from the flickering orange glow of the fire, he said with a warning, “And tell that pretty lassie you and your half-human brothers perform with, they’re all late too. Pay up or go back to working the mines.”
Eamon returned to the castle to report his failure, even though the Wizard would already know. He was always watching in a crystal ball, magic mirror, or whatever evil thing he had inherited when the Wicked Witch had died.
At first, the citizens of the Enchanted Forest had been over-joyed that she was gone. Eamon himself had sung many a verse, ending with the joyful refrain,
“The witch is dead. Which old Witch? The wicked witch.”
Unfortunately, the Enchanted Forest’s current siege was far worse than anything the late “Wicked” Witch had ever imposed.
Eamon had spent most of his pot of gold on rum to celebrate the Enchanted Forest’s freedom. What he didn’t drink away he’d spent betting on bull-dragon riding. He lost a bundle on a troll named Quod, but that’s a story for another day.
Because of the siege, Eamon was reduced to using his talent for stealth, and overall orneriness, in the employ of the Wizard, the great Oz. Eamon had become the Wizard’s most trusted bagman and repossessor, collecting fees and taking back magical objects that the enchanted kingdom’s inhabitants could no longer afford.
The first job was easy, Eamon snatched two pure white stallions from the Cinder girl after they were transformed back into mice. Although they weren’t all bad. There was a joyful ending when the town of Hamelin’s children suddenly returned after he repossessed a silver flute from their piper. But happy results were very uncommon, rarer than a munchkin getting up on a horse without a ladder.
As the years passed, and the jobs became more personal, he felt his soul slipping away. His tasks grew progressively harder and his skin thickened as his empathy for those he collected from grew. He took the last few coins from people and creatures trying to hold onto their dreams and if they couldn’t pay, he’d take the dreams.
Eamon blamed himself for his predicament. If he didn’t drink and gamble away his gold, he wouldn’t be forced into a life of servitude to the Wizard. Eamon didn’t have any friends or anywhere else to go, but at least at the castle, he was warm, dry, and well fed. And to a lonesome leprechaun who spent his days reclaiming the hopes of the desperate, there’s nothing that could beat passing the evening away in the company of an equally lonely sorcerer with an unlimited supply of booze, and the resolve to try to drink it all in one sitting. Eamon was sad, but content.
He was comfortable in his misery until the morning he was sent by the Wizard to collect the shoes of a family of dwarves.
Their entire lives the seven brothers had spent their days working in the mines. They were happy to sing their song as hi-ho, off-to-work they’d go. Until the day they rescued a young maiden whose skin was rumored to be white as snow.
She told them that they didn’t have to risk their lives underground; they could dance joyously in the sunshine and make their living as a traveling company.
The brothers were not convinced.
Possessing bodies that, at best, could be described as the short, fat, and heavy-of-foot variety, they were easily discouraged.
The Wizard heard of her plan and offered to help. For the “low monthly payment” of twenty pieces of silver, they could wear slippers, made of rare feather-gold, which would make their movements swift and graceful. The maiden convinced the dwarves to sell their tools as a down payment and accept the offer. She didn’t know that by taking his deal, she doomed them to a harsher life than any they’d had in the earth’s dark recesses.
Satisfied customers weren’t what the Wizard wanted. Desperate junkies for more magic were what kept him in power. All of his deals had side-effects. Whatever the ability acquired, it always cost more than was bargained for.
In the case of the dwarves, as long as they wore the slippers, they would lose weight. They were slowly dancing themselves to death unaware that twice the normal calories were required to fuel the magical ability.
Snow and the Seven, as they were called, were very popular. Unfortunately, their fans were even poorer than they were, so the troupe couldn’t make enough money to keep themselves fed, and pay the Wizard.
Eamon knew about the veiled side-effects. When the piper fell behind on his payments, he’d figured it out. Although the flute was originally to help the piper earn a living catching rats, the longer he played, the larger the beings that followed him became. The children’s disappearances were what gave away the hidden costs. Eventually the piper found a way to begin paying on time, but Eamon devised a way to hide this from the Wizard. Eamon would collect the silver and throw it into a deep well that he knew was dark to the sorcerer’s magic eyes. Eventually, Eamon was ordered to take back the flute. Freeing the children was the one good thing he could do. No one would ever know. No one could ever know. That secret happiness kept him alive, and had kept him hoping that one day he’d get another opportunity to make something right.
With Snow and the Seven, Eamon had found that chance. He overheard the townsfolk’s excited talk of when the Seven were scheduled to visit their small villages. Spurned by the public, his ability to hide in the smallest of shadows, even in the bright open air of a town square, allowed him to eavesdrop on many conversations he secretly wished he would be included in. And although he’d never met the girl, nor seen the brothers perform, he knew they brought hope for freedom from the Wiazard’s tyranny to those who watched them dance.
He didn’t know when or how, but he knew he had to find a way to help keep that joy coming to those dark, impoverished communities. He just needed to be patient.
The dancing brothers were uneducated pick swingers; they were followers, not leaders. He was purposely clumsy on his failed attempt to snatch a pair of the shoes from Happy Dwarf–although the name no longer seemed appropriate, as a grumbling stomach and the inability to silence it rarely left someone in a good mood. Eamon had been hoping to meet the girl. She was the key. He needed her so he could help them.
One evening he challenged the Wizard to a drinking game. They drank heavily, playing a game that came as naturally to the wee-folk of the forest as a wood-nymph leaving a trail of glitter behind as she flies through the trees. The next morning the Wizard would be sleeping off a hangover and wouldn’t be watching over his trusted repossessor’s collections. Eamon left early to try to catch Snow before she left. She didn’t need to wear the shoes to float like an angel, that left her with enough energy to work as a cleaning girl to make extra money.
His gamble paid off, she was just leaving when he arrived at her home in the woods.
“Aye lassie, you know who I be?”
Startled, she eyed Eamon suspiciously.
“Yes. I know of you, although I never wished for us to actually meet. What can I do for you?”
Eamon was taken aback. What can she do for me? Nobody had ever asked him that.
“Aye then, if you know of me, you may think you know why I’m here. Believe me or not lass, I’m here to help. Those dwarf dancers bring a lot o’ joy to the people. I don’t want to see that end because those boys waste away to nothing’”
Now it was Snow’s turn to be surprised by what was said.
“You. Want to help. Us?”
“Aye, lass. There’s something you should know about the shoes, a detail that great Wizard left out of your deal. Nobody can ever know how you found out, or I’ll be deader than that old witch who used to rule these lands.”
“Why? What do you want in return?”
“Nothing, lass. Just keep them dancing. They bring happiness to an otherwise miserable place. Now no more questions or the deal’s off and I just go in and take the shoes. Got it?”
“Please, don’t take the shoes. If they have to go back to work in the mines, they’ll die. They don’t have the strength or the tools anymore. Please don’t take them. Whatever you want, I’ll agree to it.” She dropped her bag of rags and soap. Her eyes welled with tears.
“Calm yourself, lassie. I already said I only want one thing. Nobody can know what I tell you. Ever. If he finds out, I’m done for. He’ll get an unthinking ogre to make his collections. Or he’ll bring those monkeys back. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
He told her what she needed to do. She kept her word.
Seasons came and went. Snow and the Seven became more popular than ever. Because they no longer wore the feather-light shoes, and returned to eating as they had before, they were easily able to pay their due and still have enough left for all their needs.
The Wizard never learned the truth. They paid on time, so he eventually lost interest in them and found other poor souls to torment.
Years after Snow and Eamon had their chat on her doorstep; she received news of the leprechaun’s passing. Her friend, Happy Dwarf, asked her why she wept for the evil repossessor of dreams. She told him of their talk, of how the little man who everyone shunned was really a good man doing a very hard job.
“Happy,“ she said to the dwarf whose name now matched his disposition, “Eamon came to me the day after you caught him taking your shoes.”
“I tried to step on him, but didn’t have the strength to get up,” said Happy.
“That’s right. That was because of the shoes. Once you stopped wearing them, you all got better. We got better.”
“But we still wear them. I have them on right now.” He stood deftly on one foot, holding the other in a perfect arabesque a la seconde stance to show her.
“No, Happy. You don’t. You and your brothers haven’t for years. I made those to look exactly like the Wizard’s shoes. They weren’t magic. They were cursed. I’ll tell you what Eamon said the morning after he let you catch him.” After swearing her friend to secrecy, she told him the leprechaun’s secret.
Eamon had told her about the Wizard’s many drinking games, and of the two things that happen when two lonely drunks drink.
“First, they tell secrets and, second, they forget they tell secrets.”
The human Wizard made the mistake of thinking he could outdrink a leprechaun. Especially a lonely clover looking for redemption.
The Wizard told Eamon the story of Dorothy and her friends. How he was able to grant them their dreams by doing nothing more than showing them their desires were within them all along.
“Take away the magic shoes,” Eamon said, “without anyone knowing you’re taking them and they’ll get better.”
Then he told her the most important thing he’d learned working under the con-man turned Wizard.
“The magic isn’t the magic, it’s the side effect.”
I wrote this for a 24 hour contest. They gave a couple of story ‘seeds’ and this is the story I submitted. Didn’t win anything other than the chance to give the $5 they could then give to someone else. Oh well. I liked the story, hope you do too.
An Unexpected Message
By: Wayne Hills
A message, they’ve got some nerve sending her to deliver it. Trying to bring me back, to suck me into the world I’d left seven years ago. I have the perfect cover in this little town. They love me here in my new life; I forgive their transgressions to God’s law, even as I pay the penance for my own.
Every Sunday morning, they come and listen to my sermons, who better to lecture on sin than one of God’s greatest sinners. The people are happy with my parables, the Monseigneur’s ecstatic with the extra donations, and I’m at peace with my life, a bloody perfect plan. Until today, when she boldly walked up in the town market of all places. No thought to be discrete, to maybe just send a note.
Out of the blue, she comes up and touches my sleeve as I’m greeting the townsfolk. As usual I was feigning disinterest in the women shyly stealing glances and sharing knowing nods amongst themselves as I passed by; I thought it was just another lonely housewife looking for some ‘private’ counseling. I looked down, and at first didn’t recognize her, but her unique features pulled the smile from my face.
“What are you doing here? They paid you off; you were never to speak to me again”
The anger in my tone was covered by the crowd’s chatter as they bargained with the hawkers selling goods in their crowded stalls.
Her long lashes cast a thin shadow onto her heavily scarred cheek, reminding me of the pain I caused her, and why I had to leave Her Majesty’s service.
“I know, but they sent me. We have to talk.”
She leaned close and whispered, “You see, I’m bringing a message, and you won’t listen to anyone else. More importantly, they’re pretty sure you won’t kill me. I wasn’t so positive on that part, that’s why I came to you in the open.”
I lifted my head and searched the crowd. We were seen together, so in that point she was correct. Even if the messenger had been some random lackey, I would’ve had a hard time making them disappear without questions.
“Yes my child, I’ll hear your confession, but it must be in the church to be official.”
As I led her by the hand from the town center, I hoped my voice was loud enough for the few curious faces nearby to hear and be satisfied.
We sit in separate booths, only the thin gold screen of the confessional separates us. I grill her, trying to get to the truth.
“What do they want? Why send you? And don’t give me bullocks about me not listening to anyone else.”
“They need you to come back; you’re the only cleric the M17 service has.”
“Had,” I corrected her. “I don’t work for them anymore, not after…” I trailed off. She knows why I left the SIS version of the American X-files division. After all, it was her fault.
“That’s why they sent me. It was my deception which caused your mistake. I’m sorry, and not just because I’ll pay the price of this hideous disfigurement for the rest of my life. I need your forgiveness, not for me, I deserve what I got. I need you to forgive yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
“What does it matter? I’m happy here; the church and Crown are satisfied with my banishment to this tiny hamlet. What could be so important?”
“The demon is back, the one that you summoned when you performed that unnecessary exorcism. He’s got one of the princes. Your replacement tried to perform the ceremony, and now he’s dead.”
I fall silent. She’s right, it has to be me. I called that devil from the depths of hell; I’m the only one that can send it back.
She was just a lonely teenager trying to get attention from parents that ignored her. Because she happened to be the daughter of the Prime Minister, they called in the M17 to take care of the matter in secret.
Among my other duties in service with the SIS, a vicar is good cover for a spy or a hit-man, I worked a dozen exorcisms. I didn’t know she had access to her father’s private files on the work I’d done in the field of demon expulsion. She studied well and passed, or failed, all the tests for any other explanation for her condition. I had no way of knowing performing the ritual on an unpossessed person would actually produce an evil spirit.
When I tried to banish it back to hell, the demon made the votive candles explode into a napalm fire permanently maiming her. It was an unforeseeable accident.
I should have known about her, I had my doubts, but that’s part of the deal of being a good Catholic, isn’t it? But then, so is faith.
“I’ll come back to eliminate the demon with you. But then I’m done, done with you and the Queen’s, bloody, SIS forever.”
I thought it would be simple, easy to walk away from them the first time. I have to believe this will be the last time I’m needed.
I must have faith.
Wrote this for submittal for a book of short stories with either a ‘Hero’ or ‘Villian’ main character. It was not accepted. A) It was not what they were looking for. Or B) It’s not that good. I’m going to assume it was option A.
By Wayne Hills
The pigeon’s feathers ruffle in the warm breeze hinting at the coming summer. Having no knowledge, and therefore no respect, for the shoulder of the statue she has perched upon; she relieves herself in same location her ancestors have done for hundreds of years. Her bodily function merely adds another, unnoticed, white and brown patch to the coat of the bronze homage in the small town’s main plaza.
The sculpted figure’s gaze is forever watching the sea to the west. The subject’s explorations of the New World returned great riches to his home country; his crusades brought many converts to his faith. The combined exploits brought fame and fortune to his family, and this otherwise unremarkable city on the coast of Europe.
The local school children learn about his life and travels; they look up to him and dream that their lives could one day be as glorious. This unimportant seaside village has produced countless fishermen and their wives, many drunkards, and even more prisoners. It has however, only produced one hero. Fernando Alejandro Reyes, world explorer, and prophet of his religion.
Fernando sailed uncharted oceans in small wooden ships, when primitive, and often unreliable, compasses, the stars, and a rope with metered knots tied in it, were the only means of navigation. He, and his motley crew, all desperate to escape war, disease, and famine, cast their lots to the sea in search of adventure and glory. They were the lucky few to not only discover new land, but to return safely; all that is, except for Capitan Reyes.
On his fourth expedition he met his ultimate fate at the hands of a savage. As told by his surviving shipmates, their brave leader was killed by a naked, brown, sub-human somewhere along the southern coast of New World.
There were many celebrations of Fernando’s life and deeds; an annual fiesta, and holy day were named in his honor. On the one hundredth anniversary of his glorious death, the town erected a life sized tribute in the city common. He is considered by all to be the town’s greatest son, their one true hero.
He was a mass murderer, they say. He brought civilization to barbarians, the History Books print. Fernando’s brutality was condoned in the name of the crown in order to bring back wealth.
He crushed a thriving society, they say. He discovered new lands and riches, the Inscription reads. He is a fearless explorer, and warrior of King and God, a man to be venerated.
To the inhabitants of an equally unremarkable village, somewhere on the southern coast of the World that was not New to them, perhaps not.
Surprised by a commotion from a cluster of men huddled around a small television in an open air café, the pigeon launches from her perch in a flurry of dust and loose feathers. Circling the plaza she eyes crumbs near the group’s feet. She lands nearby, and a few waddling steps towards them rewards her with a gizzard full of ants that have also discovered the spilled bounty. Occasionally her head tilts, allowing one eye or the other, to keep watch on the men in their brightly colored shirts. If her avian mind had the capacity to understand, she would know their matching attire is in support of a sports team; the region’s most popular soccer club, Futebol Clube de Sporte’.
Her pecan sized brain is also unable to decipher the large black patch emblazoned on their backs. A single bold numeral, ‘5’, symbolizes the club’s premiere player known only by his last name, Bene.
Bene, the football player, is a hero to these hard working men and their sons, and their friends and sons, and hundreds of the friends and sons of similarly dedicated and God fearing men throughout the countryside. Famous for his accomplishments on the pitch; he has earned glory for the team by amassing personal records and awards while in their employ. His fierce play, and athletic ability, has earned great victories and brought championship trophies home for the club and its fans. On the field he is a ball handling king; his skill with his feet is legend to opposing players, and the men who wear his jersey. His talent with his more delicate body parts is secretly renowned to their wives and daughters.
He has fathered a dozen children, all unknown to him, all unsupported from him, all HIV positive by him. As he travels with the team he receives standing ovations and cheers under the bright stadium lights; when those lights are dimmed however, he is spreading his seed and disease in every town he visits; one, or more, willing partner at a time.
Bene the revered athlete has failed every drug test he has ever taken for illegal narcotics. All the failures are covered up by Futebol Clube’s lawyers; the same men who buy off the women he’s infected or impregnated. For a quick payday they’ll forget what he did, and who he did it with. He is always whisked away when the Policia arrive, several times by the Policeman themselves for an autograph, or used pair of his playing sneakers.
He has a drug problem, they say. He’s seeking treatment, the Tabloids print. Bene always walks, never pays for his crimes.
He doesn’t stand up for his responsibilities, they say. He will play this week, the Sport’s Page reads. He is the ultimate champion, a thoroughbred of the greatest measure.
To the thousands of people who applaud his ability to play a child’s game, he is a sports hero, an athletic God.
The scores of neglected and infected women and children he has left in his wake; and the countless souls that lie dead because of the trafficking of the drugs he abuses, would disagree.
The shopkeepers straw bristle broom shoos the pigeon away from his café sending bits of dirt, some ants, and a small button into the air. Instinct takes over as the late afternoon’s cool breeze signals the bird that it’s time to head for her nest. The insects, dirt, and button, having no instincts at the moment but to obey the law of gravity, fall back to earth. One of the minuscule creatures lands on top of the shiny white button, but having no capacity to understand the importance of his find, crawls off in an attempt to find his way home carrying the bit of bread he holds in his tiny mandibles. He, if in fact this particular ant is a he, has found an integral piece of missing evidence in the trial of a, high ranking, Deputy of the nation’s Parliament.
Juan Carlo Opello III was born into his role as a leader of men; and the population of the country adores him for it. He has shown incomprehensible expertise in straddling the, very barbed, fence of fiscal conservatism, and liberal policies for the poor and under privileged. He is the eldest son of Juan Carlo the second. Juan II, having served as the country’s Prime Minister, was very proud when his son was appointed to the position of Deputy of the Treasury. Especially since Juan III had never worked a single day of his pampered life; it was only natural for Juan the First’s grandson to follow in the family’s dual businesses, wealth and privilege.
Juan the eldest began amassing the family fortune running liquor to the United States during the country’s, ill-advised, attempt at national temperance. And once America, pardon the pun, sobered up to the fact that they could make more money in taxes than it was cost to subject their people to an unpopular, and mostly unenforceable, law, dealt weapons to various rebel organizations throughout the world. Just as any great robber baron had learned, once enough money was made, unimaginable wealth is within grasp by seeming to be a legitimate businessman. A few well-placed bribes here, a couple ‘accidental’ deaths there, and within a generation, an unknown black marketeer had a son rise to be the country’s most powerful man.
From there it was an easy step to hold that power, to elevate another generation’s son to the heights of politics. As simple a stride as it was for that promising young man to spend a pleasant evening driving through the countryside sampling some of the land’s finer depravity. Making a quick stop here and there for a carafe of the local red or white; partaking in anything, or anyone, available to this influential politician. This respected, and coddled man who may, one day, follow in his father’s footsteps to reach the top of the political mountain.
Why shouldn’t the people want to emulate him, to shower him with gifts and praise, to treat him like the national hero he is? This man must be a God among mere humans to reach to the stars of power at such a young age. How else could he have risen so quickly?
The good people, of this proud nation, have no knowledge of the dominant Opello family’s closed door meetings with other prominent men of wealth and power. The unethical deals they arrange, the back alley packages, some containing bills both large and small, some merely containing photographs or secrets preeminent men would prefer to keep hidden. Promises covertly passed between politicians out for their own profit.
Yet even with all his distinguished family’s influence, Juan III’s ascension has not been as smooth as they had planned. An unexpected, albeit minor in their eyes, rumble up the street and over a single mother and her young child walking that same lovely evening; they were simply out enjoying the cool night after an especially hot day.
In the countryside the poor don’t have air conditioned mansions, or cars, so they walk for free in the calm night’s air. The widowed mother felt safe in her belief that any driver could see them, out for a stroll, on a well-lit street just on the outskirts of their little town. Their faith, just as one would expect a respected and important man to have inborn morality, has let them down.
Before speeding off into the dark, and the protection of his political machine; he did stop. He did in fact, rush to the mother in her dying moment. He heard her moans, “Be’be, be’be.” And he turned and looked for the child, spying him under the sleek German sports car that was a gift from his generous grandfather. He did not however, notice the mother’s hand reach out for help, for comfort in her final movement, and pluck a small ivory button from the jacket of his imported, handmade, Italian silk suit.
The young boy survived the crash, badly broken and orphaned from his encounter with the rich and powerful Juan Carlo Opello III. Although his memory was clear of the night and his description of the silver sports car and man in the fancy suit were very specific, there was no physical evidence linking this, very important, national hero to the death of an insignificant woman in the street.
“Why would she be out walking at night,” they say. “She was probably a prostitute,” the News Anchor reported. Juan Carlo is destined to be the next President; he has the pedigree for the job.
“What good to society was she?” they say. “He’s one of the country’s most powerful men, too important to fall,” the editorial page wrote. His skill at bringing the political parties together is unmatched.
To the government of the country, he is a national hero for the economy and her people.
To a young orphan boy, whose murdered mother was branded a whore, he is the vile creature who ruined his life.
Dusk’s light casts elongated shadows across the plaza as the pigeon approaches her home in the belfry of the old church. The generations of her family that defiled the town’s celebrated statute, nested in these nooks and crevices; these same sheltered outcroppings will be used by her offspring for their nests.
As she spreads her wings, and flares her pure white tail, to alight on top of her young, she spies one of the cathedral’s many feral cats stalking the three puffy grey chicks she left hours earlier in search of food.
Diverting her flight she lands on the intruder; there is no thought of her own safety, no fear in her actions. Her young must be protected from harm, even if that action puts her at risk.
Pecking and flapping her wings, she beats the predator away. As the hunter turns to flee, one last slash of a paw nicks the mother bird’s breast. The tiny red drops fall on her young as they chirp her welcome.
A month later she’ll be dead; poisoned from an infection contracted from that small nick in her tender flesh. By the time her soft body falls from the steeple, providing an easy meal for the tabby’s relatives, her three young chicks have grown to fledglings. They have left their provider’s care to explore the plaza, and add their droppings to the remnants from their forgotten mother.
Was this simple pigeon a hero? A selfless mother, she died in the act of providing shelter and protection for her family without care for glory, fame, or riches. She was just a bird, instinct guided her actions; she had no more motive than the ant bringing a crumb back to his colony.
What about the explorer, surely he is a hero? Courageously traveling the uncharted world in barely seaworthy craft; successful in his mission to discover new lands to plunder, and people to convert to his way of life. The New World’s population, were considered brutal and primitive by the conqueror’s civilization’s standards, were shown no mercy in his quest for riches and glory.
The sports star perhaps, fans worship him as their hero? Elevated to stardom, and idolized by legions simply because he was born with physical gifts, and abilities greater than the average human’s. The adoration shown by his followers allow him to live an extravagant lifestyle with no concern for the welfare of others. His indifference includes his own, unfortunate and unseen, progenies.
The eloquent statesman, a man of the people, he must be a hero? Born into a family considered royalty by the oppressed masses; they are seen as the paramount example of the promise of a better life. They choose to ignore, or conveniently forget, that he inherited a privileged station in life because of his forefather’s illicit dealings; his ancestor’s trading in vice, and death, bought wealth and power to his family tree. Abuse of that authority allows them a free pass to murder, and corruption in the name of wealth.
There are heroes, and villains in this story. Individually each fisherman, wife, mother and father, shopkeeper, sports fan, even the drunkards and criminals may be flawed. But among them, there are men and women who strive each day for what is right for their families and society. Unknowingly we encounter heroes every day; we are just looking in the wrong direction.