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The Unicorn Slayers

Unicorns don’t get murdered often. Most hunters don’t realize they’re people when they kill them. When that happens, they’re forgiven. It’s an honest mistake. When a unicorn is murdered, in full knowledge of what they are, apologies are never enough. Humans have their systems of justice. They would apply fines, prison time, and community service, as if these things can ever replace a lost life. The unicorns, they demand restitution.

Unicorns have no interest in due process. They have no interest in social order. Unicorns run wild, in the wilderness between outposts of civility. Unicorns want cloppsright. Most modern species have evolved past their violent urges. They seek rehabilitation and deterrence, not only retribution. Unicorns have not. That’s why we keep them in check. When a unicorn starts the cycle of vengeance, we put a stop to it.

Prompt: Tale Weaver- 10/26/17

The Peasant and the Frog

“Is this your first or your nineteenth?”

Ribbit.

“I don’t know,” he croaked loudly. That was how he croaked.

His servant sighed, stroking his future king.

“The groundskeeper wasn’t certain, and neither was the magician, but they agreed that frogs can live two years, at least.”

“Good,” croaked the prince.

“That means you have time to find her, my liege.

“Who,” said the skeptic croakily.

“Your princess, my liege. She can free you from your curse.”

Ribbit.

“I love you,” sighed his sweetheart.

Prompt: Tale Weaver- #142- Birthday

Ley and Subway Lines

“Here we are.”

“Seriously? This is it, the great magical nexus?”

“It’s not all trees and river systems.”

photo by Andre Benz via Unsplash

Prompt: Three Line Tales, Week 90

Food for Dolls

“Well, I didn’t want tea anyway.”

It sounded petulant to her ears, but there was no trying again. It didn’t matter how much she tried to predict her tone and her bearing; she wasn’t the one driving this thing.

“Alright,” he said, picking up the cup. His voice was steady and gentle. She didn’t know what audience he was acting for. They both knew what he was.

“I made breakfast,” he repeated inanely. She had heard him the first time, but of course that didn’t matter. There was a script, and she was abandoning it. That wouldn’t do.

“Thank you, dear. You do so much for me,” she lied.

The strings were pulled taut. She was being moved again. She bounced out of her seat. She jerked towards the sink.

“It’s the least I can do. I’ve been so lucky,” he said, voice as bitter as it had been on that day. But he was still smiling, and when he said, “Thank you for doing the dishes tonight,” his voice was as kind as his expression.

Apologies to Michael at Morpethroad, whose post inspired this one.

The Common Defense

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You signed up to keep the peace. That’s what we’re doing.”

“What we’re doing is betraying everything our country stands for.”

“Don’t we stand for tolerance?”

There’s a roar, further up the road. They can’t see her wings or tail yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

“We stand for truth and justice too. It’s not tolerance to accept everything, even the stuff that’ll destroy you.”

“The death rate is minimal so far.”

“So far.”

“Maybe you’re right, maybe this is a mistake. You did sign up for this.”

“Maybe I’ll change that.”

Image by Izaak Standridge

Court Jester

“Pick a card,” it cried out. There was a petulant quality to the voice, like a child that had never grown up. So it went, day after day. The circus came to town, once, and never left.

The laughter, high-pitched and incessant, was worse. If he had ever had a sense of humor, it was gone now, worn down by years of this torture.

He kept peddling, kept performing. Even when it closed the lid on his box, submerging him in darkness. He didn’t want to make it angry again.

Monastic Preserves

“You could say I’m a connoisseur. Have you ever tried Trappist beer?”

“No, sir. I don’t drink.”

“Of course, of course. Where do you get your berries?”

“That’s not something we like to share, sir.”

“Of course, of course. I suppose I can’t have just one more jar?”

“They won’t cooperate, sir.”


“Couldn’t you convince them?”

“We are busy.”

“Of course, of course. I suppose I’ll be on my way then?”

“Was there something else you needed, sir?”

“You wouldn’t be interested in having a taste of it, would you? You’re welcome.”

“I’m a monk, sir.”

“Of course.”

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a busy character. It could be a busy beaver, gnawing birch trees endlessly or an executive on the go. Go where the prompt leads.

Ancient Architects

“What was it for?”

“It was a monument to the Christian god. They used it as a place of worship.”

“The entire thing?”

“There were variations over time. Some religions believed that places like this were important. Dedicating a building and idols to the gods was seen as the greatest gift, because it meant bringing them into your life. The gods exist beyond reality, so it’s important to invite them in.”

“Is that what the people who made this believed?”

“Not exactly. I’m not an expert on early Christian thought, you understand.”

“Got it. Why the art?”

“The art is an act of devotion. Some wrote poetry instead.”

“It seems too physical. I thought religions were about the abstract?”

“They were, but they were also about morality, social order, community, and understanding the world.”

jan-tielens-39800.jpg

“Their understanding was wrong, and a lot of the morality was terrible. I’m not sure ‘social order’ sounds that great as a central tenet, either.”

“I’m not sure I can explain it to you. Things were different then.”

“You say it like you were there.”

“I saw the end of religion. I think I understand most of the history of human religion better than those who didn’t.”

“You weren’t religious, though.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You really talk like you admired the whole thing, but their priorities must have been skewed to preserve these buildings for so long. They could have tried to preserve the reefs instead.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“I know that look. You want to argue.”

“Sometimes I wish I’d seen the Great Barrier Reef before it died, yes. But there’s something to be said for standing inside something like this.”

“It’s nice, I guess. I’ve never seen a building with this much wood and glass.”

“It’s always going to be a bit out of place now. Out of time.”

 

The title is a riff on Ancient Aliens, a show I’ve never actually watched and don’t plan to.

Inspired by the Quote of the Day, from texaslawstudent.com

Photo by Jan Tielens on Unsplash

 

 

A Literate Populace

“They aren’t meant to read! They’re only good for cleaning up after us!”

“We extend these rights to all humans, regardless of their qualities as individuals. I may not respect them, but I recognize them for what they are.”

“Why does the reality of ‘what they are’ matter? They’re not better than animals, even if they are more like us than the rest.”

“I want to be on the right side of history.”

“I see. Vanity over progress.”

“Progress requires improving upon the past .”

“Progress needs something to build on.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the speller.

“Shush,” they said simultaneously.

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a speller.

Lengthy Dissertation

As I reached the top of the hill, I examined the sides of the formation first. They looked like natural rock, and felt like it, too. The locals blamed every fairy and ghost for the sight that they could imagine, their superstitions leading them astray. Most likely, the structure was the result of a long-dead river, water that once had flown through here and since been redirected. They had showered me with gifts when I told them my destination. While they were content to hide down below, I, the intrepid adventurer, braved the mountains.

It was a nice reputation to build up, so I didn’t stop the rumors. I knelt in the sand for a closer look at the sculpted rock. It was too perfect to be natural. Looking through it gave me a sense of vertigo, like I was peering into another world. I noted my thoughts and observations in my journal as I looked through. I wrote, until my eyes began to feel tired and my hand cramped. I was able to tear my eyes away from the hole at long last, placing down my pen.

My throat tickled with thirst. Surprised, I reached for my water bottle. Gone. I looked to my journal. It was still recognizable as paper, but it was well-worn with time. As I picked up the pen, scribbling on the moldy, fragile paper. As it tore, the pen left no mark.

I called out, but there was no one to hear me on the mountain. Clutching the notebook, the pen, and the last shreds of my sanity, I began the long trek back.

Prompt: Weekly Writing Prompt #104: | FAIRY | SAND | HIDE | JOURNAL | RIVER |

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