Fantasy Drabble #59 “Destiny’s Child”

He waded into the ogres: hacking and slashing his way through the thick of them, arms covered with gore up to the elbow, flag flying behind him.

On a nearby hilltop, he was the object of much discussion.

“The Prince acquits himself well,” said the Chamberlain.

“He has a knack for it. Like his father,” observed the Master at Arms.

The Queen was quiet for a moment. “His father died on a field not far from here.” There was a pause, an uncomfortable silence full of a cold wind. She continued, “I could almost wish he was hopeless at it.”

Fantasy Drabble #58 “Technicalities”

He was standing on the first plank, blocking the way, when I rode up to the bridge. “And what have you to pay your way across?”

I smiled and answered conversationally, “Why should I pay?”

The troll glowered, arms crossed. “It’s my bridge.”

“You built it?”

“…Not personally, but…”

“Then the land it rests on is deeded to you?”

“That’s not the…”

“Did you receive a Royal Charter of some sort? An Appointment by the Chamber of Commerce?”

"…what are you talking about?” The troll seemed confused now.

“I think we should consult a lawyer…”

“Oh, just go on across.”

Zombie Drabble #110 “Bell System Property, Not For Sale”

It was an old black rotary phone. He’d given up trying to call out, none of people whose the numbers he remembered ever picked up. He called random numbers for a while, but never got anyone living. He’d reached a few answering machines, and left messages with his name and number.

There were no books and no computer. He’d had the newspaper in his hands when he ran for the shelter that day, but he’d used most of the pages to soak up some spilled water three weeks ago.

Arnold Gilley stared intently at the phone, willing it to ring.

Zombie Drabble #109 “Dinner for Two”

If the bomb shelter were any smaller, they probably would have killed each other by now. As it was they alternated between days where they barely acknowledged each other to days entirely spent in bed, comforting each other with quiet whispers and sex.

It was the latter kind of day, but they were hungry, and so Penny got up to cook. The recipe was simple: rice, corn, beans, tomatoes, all from cans. Spice to suit. She called it ‘Armageddon Surprise.” They’d eaten variations of it, and nothing else, for two months. Penny would have given anything for a fresh orange.