Fantasy Drabble #377 “Conjurer For Hire”

It was maybe twenty feet tall, and screamed continuously, probably because it was on fire. It had appeared instantly in the midst of the enemy lines, already screaming.

“Do we… do we attack?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “It won’t be able to tell the difference between your men and the Raiegan soldiers. Keep them back until it disappears.” When the King gave him an annoyed glance, he added “…is my advice, your Majesty.”

“How long until it disappears?”

“Not really sure. Maybe five or six minutes.”

Burning Raiegans flew through the air by the dozens. “That should do.”

SF Drabble #471 “Take Me To Your Leader”

“The coffee?”

“Yes sir.”

“Is sapient? The coffee.”

“Yes sir, I’m sorry, sir, the boys down in Lab 12 really had a corker of a weekend and—”

“And it’s communicating with them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it’s angry?”

“Well, as you can imagine, the boys down in Lab 12 had drunk quite a lot of the coffee before they realized it was self-aware. Not really sure how they figured it out, actually, but they are geniuses, after all—”


“Sorry, sir. At any rate, the coffee was quite unhappy about having been half-consumed and had declared, well, sort of… war.”


SF Drabble #470 “Regime”

I have received your recommendation for an order to suppress Jal Hardaway’s new novel, Old Things Looking New. I would first like to say how much I and the Ministry Of Culture appreciate your continued efforts to see that the art of the day serves both to enrich the people and contribute to peace and order.

I feel, however, that when new art raises questions about our society, it is incumbent upon the State to provide simple, reasonable answers to those questions. Where we find objections, we should seek to convince, not to censor. Please approach your assigned subjects accordingly.

Fantasy Drabble #376 “A Woman’s Place”

There were already four notches on the hilt of her father’s sword by the time Wyndree had her armor made, custom to her frame. When she passed by — in the armor or not — the town guard nodded with respect, where once they had leered or catcalled. If there was a great stirring in the woods, or cattle went missing, or the caravan from Solderving was inexplicably overdue, it was Wyndree the town elders approached for help, instead of that overcharging hedge magician Milwrab Conset.

A girl can get a reputation, her mother had often cautioned. How right she had been.

Leaving The Nest

She was packing when he got home. “What’s this?”

“I’m going.”



“Awfully sunny in L.A.” He sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded, prepared to talk it out. “Maybe reconsider?”

“Fuck off.”

“If you would just calm down and—”

“No really,” she spun suddenly, pointed a finger trembling with rage at the bridge of his nose. “Fuck off.”

He shrugged, got up, took off his suit-jacket. “How about one more for the road then?” When he turned again, she was inches from him, fangs out, eyes like pinholes, hissing. “I can’t tell, is that a ‘yes’?”

The First Ones

The Uji think of them as gods. As mythical beings, anyway, not mortal things that cry and shit and make mistakes. They don’t have a name as a group, they’re all named as individuals in the stories. Like, John, Paul, George, Ringo, but never ‘the Beatles’.

Down in the valley there’s a pair of footprints. "Mohog’s Landing”, where Mohog is said to have leapt from the cliffs and landed, leaving an impression in hard wet clay that petrified into rock. The prints are ten meters heel to toe, and not shaped like a Uji foot.

I wonder who they were.