I stared through slitted eyes at the two characters facing me, one silent and watchful, the other spluttering and hissing.
“Master Gollum,” I announced, making my voice powerful and strong “You claim that Master Panda stole your precious.” “Curse us and hate us, master judge,” wheezed Gollum, “ Yes, this ‘orrible creature may look cute but he’s as bad as they get. Yes, Yes.” “And you also claim that he was a sidekick to Bilbo Baggins?” I posed this as a question. At this Gollum screeched. “I’ll kill that miserable hobbit! It stole it from us! Curse us and hate us!” after this outburst Gollum started sobbing uncontrollably. I turned to the panda, who had watched these proceedings so far with an amused expression on his face. This was too much for poor Gollum. He jumped at the panda and landed on him, beating his head with a rock that he had somehow acquired. The panda squealed and tried to escape, to no avail. I sighed and motioned for the guards to get this under control. Silently, I wondered how many judges had ever had Gollum in their courtroom. Not many. How I envied them at this moment. Chapter Three
The Stranger eyed the stubborn innkeeper with utter contempt. The Stranger, as everyone called him, was small, with a tanned, wrinkled face which had been hardened after long hours on dusty roads. It owned a pepper and grey beard, which came down to his chest. His eyes were a dark green, and glinted in the fading lamp hanging perilously on the rickety pine roof. He clutched a tall, long staff which he had had since he was a little boy. A long brown cloak wrapped around his small body, which concealed all his belongings, which was three daggers, a small leather purse which actually held a fortune, and the family heirloom, a small sapphire, which was small, but had a rich, deep dark blue. With black hair and wisps of grey, the stranger was still quick as a snake, and was surprisingly strong for his slim build. He had just tried to get a night at this inn, and the inn-keeper was giving him an impossibly high price. Eventually the Stranger gave in and reached for his purse. “I suppose I’ll have to pay anything for one night,” he sighed. “Yes, I suppose you shall,’ mimicked the innkeeper, a strange glint in his greedy eyes. Suddenly the Stranger, in a lightning quick movement, shot his hand up and grabbed the collar of the startled, fat innkeeper and gave a quick twist of his wrist. The sweating man gave a yelp of surprise. “Now,” the Stranger’s voice was dangerously soft. “Lower the price and let me stay or my friend here will do the talking.” He nodded his head downwards, and the innkeeper was greatly discouraged to see a razor sharp blade stabbing into the fleshy part of his throat. “Yes,” he gurgled, barely getting the words out. “Yes, I think that would be good.” He named the much lower price. “I would quite like a three course meal,” the Stranger hinted cheerfully. “Living off dried beef for a while hasn’t been the greatest dinner for four months. For free, mind you.” The indignant innkeeper opened his mouth to protest, but the heavy blade of the Stranger’s dagger returning to the rough pine bench told him to not do so. “Very well,” the fat owner muttered, outraged with the Stranger’s request for a free meal. “We have some lamb racks, seasoned with rosemary, with some roast potatoes on the side. Supper is an apple pie, along with coffee. Other drinks are ale or wine.” “That sounds wonderful, thank you. I’ll have ale, if you don’t mind,” was the happy response. The Stranger glided towards the far corner of the building, seating himself at a curiously shaped table. He fiddled with the thin table cloth that wrapped itself around the top of the table. Soon after the meal came, steaming on a large, oval shaped plate. The head waiter worked his way expertly around the tables dotted here and there in the hot, smoky room. The Stranger gave a small nod, and tucked into it eagerly. His appetite was obviously big, because he devoured it quickly. “That was quite nice,” admitted the Stranger. “Now, where’s that apple pie someone was talking about?” this last statement was addressed to the kitchen, which was hidden just around a bend in the room. “Just coming, sir,” announced a nervous junior waiter who had just lurched into the large inn. He was holding the large pie, which had a flaky pastry top. The young waiter placed the apple pie onto the Stranger’s table, bowed deeply and scurried off without a word. The Stranger licked his lips, and snatched the pudding in two hands, took a huge bite and instantly flavour exploded in his mouth. It reminded him like his mother’s savoury stew that she used to make on cold winter days. The Stranger’s eyes watered slightly, the first sign of any true emotion. He cursed under his breath, shook himself and busied himself with the apple pie. Several sliced apples were buried in the pie like hidden treasures, and they squelched under the impact of the Stranger’s white teeth. The pie was one of the best in stock, and the cooks were outraged that this ‘imposter’ as they called him, could get away with this. The innkeeper soothed them by saying he would call in the watch as soon as he went to sleep. The cooks enthusiastically agreed, and so that was when the plan was set up. ***** “Careful you fool! If you wake him he could kill us all!” hissed the captain of the watch. The last bit wasn’t exactly true, but it was effective to the young boy who had just made a good deal of whimpering. “Sorry sir. I was just checking to see if he was awake, I was.” “Very well,” muttered the watchmen. “All right men, swords out, and let’s put this ruffian under lock and key!” this was met by a low murmur of approval from the rest of the group. They strode over to the bed, and tipped the bed over. There was a heavy crash as the bed collapsed to the ground. The remains of several vases spilled onto the ground. Some whispering followed as the captain stood dumbfounded at the upturned bed. “Who did this?” he fumed to no one in particular. The others in the group stayed silent. They knew that the captain was not a good man to mess with. Flinging the door open, the outraged man walked out with a reddened face, and spat out several curses as he tore down the narrow staircase. The others followed hesitantly. A cloaked man, who had been hanging perilously from the window shelf, dropped silently to the roof underneath him, even though he knew the occupant in there would almost definitely be asleep. He stole over to the stable, jumped onto a small shaggy horse and sped down the broad main street. Small market stalls shrank back into the looming shadows. The inn was already a small tower amidst the smaller collection of houses that made up the town. A forest was now coming ever closer to him, and the Stranger grinned mirthlessly. The watch would have only just got back from their expedition, and he had zipped through the watch towers, their pine boards creaking in the cold wind that bit at the Strangers body. Letting go of the reins, he wrapped the cloak around his body even more tightly. He plunged deep into the forest, and nearly smashed into a towering oak that blocked a makeshift path. He slowed the horse’s gallop to a canter. Scanning his surroundings, the Stranger ignored his horse’s noisy breathing, but instead focused on what was around him. Dense undergrowth obscured the mud and dirt underneath. Towering trees of different varieties covered the overhanging clouds, making the forest feel stuffy. The Stranger could sometimes see birds roosting peacefully on the high branches that made up the darkened green canopy. He just then noticed that because he was looking up at the natural roof, he hadn’t noticed the sound of quiet voices, or hadn’t seen the burning campfire that was partly blotted out by a small pine tree. Realising that his gaze was always on the dying light, The Stranger hurriedly switched his fixing stare on the other parts of the forest. “Stupid fool,” the Stranger muttered to himself. By looking at the campfire, his night vision was momentarily ruined. It came back to him, and instantly his steely eyes picked out an unnatural lump of something. It was hard to tell, but The Stranger thought he could pick out the hilt of a long dagger. He dropped to the ground and, forgetting about the horse, stole quietly across the underbrush. Sandron moved his head in where the rustling had come from. He knew it was not what a creature would do, so he instantly drew another of his blades and prepared from the onslaught of this invisible opponent. The attack came sooner than Sandron expected, though he was still ready for it. The Stranger launched himself at Sandron, and the clash started. It was evenly matched, because where The Stranger was experienced and stronger, Sandron was quick and nimble. Sandron unleashed a furious array of cuts and slices with both daggers, pushing the Stranger into some thick fernery. Victory was near for Sandron, when the Stranger rolled into the underbrush and disappeared into the abundance of bushes. Sandron stood there, a little confused when the Stranger appeared again, his oak staff whirling above his head. He brought it down on his opponent and Sandron instinctively ducked to avoid the trimmed oak branch. He tripped on a rotting log, and tumbled back. The Stranger strolled over to where Sandron was lying, and unsheathed a long dirk from his leg. He pinned Sandron to the ground, and brought the blade to Sandron’s throat. Sandron’s eyes watered slightly. His vision blurred. Suddenly he thought his sight was deceiving him. He could see Davis and David hammering punches into the Strangers body, which sent him reeling. Sandron found himself being picked up by gentle hands, taken to the clearing and being let down on the medics floor. Then his world went black. Think of a dog.
A jostling wobbling, happy dog. A furry, fluffy, smiling dog. A drooling, cooling, hot, dog. A strolling, rolling, groaning dog. bouncing to me, grinning at me. Stroking my leg, brushing my leg. licking my feet, wetting my feet. Thumping away, dreading goodbye. Think of this dog. “Honestly, Andrew. If this happens again, you’ll be going to the headmaster.”
Andrew flinched as the words were thrown at him. It wasn’t fair, he thought. It wasn’t his fault that he got bullied incessantly. It wasn’t his fault that he kept failing in everything. The other boys snickered quietly as he received his punishment. Great, he thought bitterly, another beating at interval. Andrew’s nerves jangled in time as the sharp clear bell clanged over the courtyard, settling into the room quietly. Still, the class burst into a hive of activity as expectant, awaiting ears picked up that sound. Miss James did her her best to contain the chaos, to no avail. Sighing deeply, she settled lower into her chair, her sharp eyes looking for any sign of stupidity that would be instantly squashed by her authority. As Miss James’s eagle eyes scanned her domain, she saw Andrew sitting there at his desk. Then he rose quietly, without any of the usual excitement expressed in the other pupils. Rather, it seemed that there was a sense of dread settling on him like a blanket, disconnecting himself from his surroundings. Andrew dragged each foot as he walked, trying to make the inevitable not happen. Without realising it, Andrew had to come to the courtyard. A small group of boys on the other side of the court beckoned him over. When Andrew hesitated, they started to come forward. Andrew, dreading what was about to happen, started to walk the distance between them, shortening it until the gap was only five metres. How he wished it was the Grand Canyon. From what he heard about it, the vast chasm was more than adequate for separating them. A harsh sneer cut through his fog of dreaming like a scythe cutting grass. “Lost our brains then, have we, you little shrimp?” the other boys laughed awfully as the words were delivered to Andrew. Knowing what he would get if he looked up, the smaller boy kept his eyes down. Dimly, he heard another big lump of a child saying, “Like brother, like brother.” Suddenly a huge flash of anger erupted in Andrew’s bosom, flaring up into his head until it exploded, propelling his fists forward, swinging them wildly at the closest boy available. He got one flush on his nose, spurting blood and bringing tears to the boys eyes. Then he got grabbed from behind. ***** The soft sound of the door shutting alerted Maria from her baking, causing her to peer around the doorway. These days, suspicions were at their very peak. when she was satisfied that she knew who it was, she added a few more ingredients to her bread, then started kneading furiously. Andrew braced himself for the fit of coughing that would fill the house. When he didn’t hear any, he looked curiously at his mother. “Where’s Jack?” Maria looked down, not willing to meet his son’s eyes.“He’s gone,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. A surge of emotions flowed through Andrew as he heard those words. The first one that he felt was relief. now that Jack was gone he wouldn’t get bullied by the older boys. Then Andrew felt a pang of worry. What if Jack was killed? They would never be able to survive. Even when jack was here he had been able to help the family income. Andrew felt a scream rising up in his body, until it burst from his mouth like a train funnel. He ran to his room and sobbed on the floor, where he could think in peace. Michael Crosson My hand reached out against his, the smooth against wrinkly skin a stark contrast. A wizened finger lovingly grasped his smooth handle of a gnarled walking stick. Several corrugated lines spread out over his hand like running rivers. An ugly thumbnail, cut until it was like jagged rocks, once again gave a stark contrast to my own, neatly cut nails. It bore testimony to lack of care for personal looks, though if anything, it just gave me a greater respect for this man.
i looked into his deep hazel eyes, which held so much knowledge. It was like looking into a secret door of the past, a door which had a key that only I owned. It showed pain, fear, love and joy mixed into one. his eyes looked down into mine as he sensed that someone was gazing at him. He smiled at me, a smile that had all the warmth and care that only a grandfather could muster. It was a genuine smile, something that worked wonders on me. something that pushed all my worries into the deepest corners of my soul, and hiding them there. It soothed my fears and calmed my troubles like a wash of water refreshing me. Music filtered through to the servants room as people laughed out loud, guzzling large drinks of wine or brandy.
Upstairs the butler expertly wheeled around potbellied, cigar smoking men wearing excessive waistcoats and shirts. There was a 'pock!' when someone hit the snooker balls on the huge pool table. A cheer went up as the butler emerged into the smoke filled room. On the other side of the huge room sat the ladies of the party, drinking cups of tea and chatting among themselves. David looked at the fresh piece of venison lying contently on the dying campfire. He’d shot it yesterday, a young gazelle, and he looked forward to tucking into it later. He idly poked the embers and let his aching bones relax as he pushed back his head to see an abundance of twinkling stars looking down at him. He could see several constellations here and there, and he noticed that a crescent moon had and slipped from the clutches of a cloud and was now spilling its light on David’s little one man camp. It illuminated the black woods resting beside him, and his little tent was seen with half the dazzling light on it, the other half lost in the shadows. David reluctantly brought his weather beaten face back to the venison, realising that it would probably be best to take it off now. Reaching for a pair of scratched and notched tongs, David stooped forward, stretching to grab the smoking venison. He licked his lips hungrily and a single drip of saliva escaped his watering mouth and splattered to the grassy ground. His hand grasped a rough oak wood plate and he hastily splattered the marinated eye fillet onto his plate along with some bits of lukewarm bacon he’d toasted before. “Thank you dear Mother Mary for this food you have provided, and may Harold and his Saxons lead England to victory and defeat those cowardly Normans and their weak leader William!” David prayed this out loud and the last bit about William was said with a bit more spirit and another word I probably shouldn’t mention. He then tucked into his rustic dinner eagerly, and before long the remains were a few belches which came from his bursting full tummy. Seeing he had nothing to do, he put out the sleepy fire, packed up his weapons and appeared to turn it in. But sleep eluded him for a while as he thought about his small band of men who were unknown to the enemy but also to the Saxons. He thought of the new men they had recruited and those who they had tried to recruit. They were called the Green Mystics, one of the most unknown people to the wider world of Merry England. Some of them carried spears, nearly all carried swords and most had bows. His mind in particular turned to Sandron. He was a small lad of the age of about 21, who had a strong spirit and was competent with the long-bow. He was up in a farm just out-side the bustling city of York. His father, a cobbler by trade, had given him asset of six daggers for his birthday. He had found, or rather, liberated a seventh blade. It was curiously shaped. Sandron called it his ‘thug’ knife. He had named it that because he once met a thug threatening his younger brother, John. He had quietly sneaked up behind him (with no weapon) and smacked him so hard that the thug went out like a light. “And then,” quipped Sandron, his broad North English accent filling David’s sleepy mind, “And then I just takes that knife and slip up like my jersey just like that, see?” at that bit he indicated with his left jersey arm and motioned with the sheathed thug knife how he did it. “Like it was never there,” He ended to the weary Green Mystics. The other six knives were similar, except that the last two David inspected were very long, basically short swords. He had said that they were crafted by his own grand-father, but on that topic he would say no more. David guessed that it was because his grandfather had passed away. Then his thoughts turned to the others in the Green Mystics. Peter, usually known as Big Pete, was a quiet but friendly man from the village of Glastonbury. He was broad and burly. His choice of weapons was a gigantic club, fashioned from a humongous oak branch. He was very trust-worthy. At 6.8ft, he was a gentle giant to his close companions, but an opponent’s worst night-mare in battle. Clumsy at times, he could be almost completely silent when he chose to, although he wasn’t that good on unseen movement. He was also the Green Mystics cook, and a good one he was too, David thought, a wry grin splaying over his grim face. He could almost taste his delicious spicy beef stew, or his superb seasoned lamb racks. Once again David’s thoughts turned over to a different topic. This time it turned to his brother, Davis. He was David’s identical twin, and though he could be devastating in battle, he seemed to make everyone’s life a misery. He was probably the best with a bow, and was very dangerous with the sword, even though he was a bit of a wet blanket. Finally, his thoughts turned to Jonah, his second in command. He was always cheerful, and always looking to cheer people up. He was very skilled with the sword, and, like Sandron, competent with the bow. His facial features were recognisable, probably because of the salt and pepper beard. He sported a small moustache, which suited him, and his short black hair which was just beginning to grey he kept trimmed short. His usual features were a wide broad smile, which covered most of his whiskery face. His shoulders were broad, and they rest of his upper body he kept in great physical condition. His legs were beefy, which added to the fact that even though Jonah was fit, he was not a natural athlete. His good condition was hours on his farm. With those thoughts still buzzing around happily in David’s shutting down brain, David yielded to sleep, and he let its comforting arms wrap around him. ***** When David awoke his first thought was that it was still dark. He could tell that from the half open tent flap. His second was that there was something awfully painful protruding up into the small of his back. He then realised that he had more than half a mind to use the privy, but then a thought struck him. What if there was an intruder outside, ready to knife him as soon as he showed himself? “Don’t be stupid, David. Why should anyone kill you just because you needed to use the toilet?” he laughed to himself. Still, as he covered the ground to the nearest sheltered tree he kept on looking nervously over his shoulder, as if he half expected to see a hunched back man with a raised knife, running silently towards him. He was about to wriggle back into the cramped tent when a quiet noise coming from the pitch black woods hit David’s eardrums. It sounded strangely familiar, but David couldn’t quite place it. It reminded him of when he was out hunting. Then he knew what it was. “How could I forget?” murmured David, partly amused at his short memory lapse and partly ashamed of him-self for not realising that he couldn’t remember what a bowstring twanging could sound like, for that was what it was. But his thoughts were interrupted by a sound so faint that David could barely hear it. It sounded like muffled voices, but that was only a guess. David peered into the looming black trees, but it was no use. A dense cloud of fog had made a natural veil over the pines, making it impossible to see more than a few feet. David, sensing suspicion, covered the remaining distance to the first lines of timber and started going in when a thought struck him. What if there was an armed man, or even armed group of men, waiting to catch him. He decided to turn around and fetch his bow and sword. He not finished buckling his blade to the rough leather belt hitched up tightly around his waist when a clear loud scream carried out to David. He hastily made the final touches to his belt and plunged into the thick fog, giving a brief glance over to see that everything was all right, but found that he could not even see his small camp, so thick was the fog. ***** Not 20 minutes had passed when David came across some concrete evidence. He had been trailing some very faint signs which only the best hunters could pick out, and even then not many of them could do it. But David was one of the best trackers in that century, second only to Davis. Naturally David held no grudge against that fact, but surprisingly, neither did Davis. It was one of the few things he didn’t try to be negative, and when some-one brought the topic up, he would reply with a grunt, or if he was in a bad mood, he would reply, with a steely glare that would stay on you until that person would drop his eyes away from his gaze. Little did any-one know, though David suspected this, was that Davis acted this way because he was David’s brother, and the most trust-worthy person brother too. When David was a little boy, not even ten years old, he was being knocked about by a bully well renowned for his mean actions. David was being knocked around by this thug who was easily twice the size of him, when Davis walked out of their rustic log cabin they had been brought up in. He was doing one of his tedious chores, but as soon as he saw David being punched about, he dropped the wood basket and strode over to the scene. He quickly grabbed the bully’s collar and with a quick turn of his wrist, had put the bully to the dusty ground, then started to put his hard, clenched fists into some very painful spots, until David had managed to pull Davis away from the sobbing, wailing former bully, now reduced to a little toddler crying for his mother. When coming back to the present, David realised that this momentary flash-back had brought him away from the trail by a few feet. He hastily retraced his steps and carried on following the tracks. The clear evidence was a piece of mottled green cloth, which had been before hanging on a broken twig was now hastily trampled on the muddy ground, which made the light boot-print even more noticeable. “Green lined boot-print,” muttered David. “How more obvious can it ...?” The last word was cut off by an eerie whistle which passed barely 5 centimetres of David’s thick, straight, black hair. He instinctively dived into a helpful outcrop of leafy, long ferns which would provide sufficient cover. Another black arrow slammed into a mossy log where David had just been. He now carefully unstrung his bow and quietly got one of his own arrows. He drew back the string and let it loose. He knew before it hit the shrubbery less than a foot from his enemy that it wasn’t going to hit. The low fog had made it hard to even see his shooter, so David basically had to guess where he was. Even so, he cursed silently to himself and decided it would be no good shooting into that stupid fog. He was just deciding that when a wicked arrow slammed into the fleshy part of his thick calf. The leather straps took the brunt of it, but even so, David couldn’t stifle the scream that sprang from his lips. ***** On the other side of the vegetation, the cloaked figure produced a wicked smile which could only just be seen under the shadow of his cowl. “Got him,” he whispered to himself. The scream that had carried across the space between them was music to his ears, the shooter thought. The man who had shot David had perched himself into the V of an enormous oak, making himself almost invisible because of the thick abundance of leaves which surrounded him. He was thinking of disabling him and just leaving him there, just bleed him to death, when a small flurry of movement caught his eye. There it was again. The small flap of a mottled green cloak was almost identical to the one that he was wearing. The evil smile disappeared and was replaced by a twisted snarl of anger. He quickly sent a successive volley of arrows into that direction. It would have been an awesome sight to see, but perhaps it wouldn’t be so stunning to see the small trickle of blood cascade down the white rock. “Perfect,” the man once more whispered to himself, “Just perfect”. Chapter Two David looked at his handiwork and nodded. He had brought last, non-cooked venison out and had squeezed it, so the blood came out. He had just finished pouring it into his water flask when a horrible whistle came over his head and he saw that the shooter had already let loose five arrows. David hurriedly opened the flask and sloshed the blood all over the white rock. Then he ran. I want to get a better hook for my stories, and keep my readers engaged right through.
I would like to make my short stories more explosive and descriptive. I would like to increase my writing styles. |
AuthorHello my name is Michael and I would prefer it if Damien didn't change this note! Hint hint, Archives
September 2015
Categories |