Tag: mindlovemisery’s menagerie

The Unicorn Slayers

On October 26, 2017

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

By Járnviðr

On October 19, 2017

In Flashes

“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

Food for Dolls

By Járnviðr

On September 16, 2017

In Flashes

“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.

Court Jester

By Járnviðr

On September 12, 2017

In Flashes

“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.

The Name of This Star

By Járnviðr

On August 12, 2017

In Flashes

When the first trumpet sounds, I am proud. The world I am building will be a good one. My people will be happy, and if that is objectionable to the men of faith, then I am doing something right. They are hidebound hypocrites. Heaven rains down the destruction they have wrought.

When the second trumpet sounds, I am confident. The damage is severe, but I have not set this tragedy into motion. I am a leader in these trying times, and while these events test my resolve, I do not buckle under the pressure.

When the third trumpet sounds, I am resolute. We purify the water, watching carefully for unsafe standards and negligence. I will not see us destroyed by human pettiness.

When the fourth trumpet sounds, I am adaptable. Without light, the world is a place of danger and constant threat. Yet we have our own lighting. We have had for centuries. I prepare.

When the fifth trumpet sounds, I am agonized. The cruelty of others is a sting painful enough, but now I face the creatures of nature? We guard against the swarms as they overtake us, and we protect our lungs from the choking smoke.

When the sixth trumpet sounds, I am grieving. So many perish to the hellish demons that rise from the East. Their eyes and their wings are countless, and I have no time to count them. I am too busy burying the dead.

When the seventh trumpet sounds, I am devastated. My kingdom is not my kingdom. My world is not my world. My life is not my life.

Prompt: Music Prompt #10

The Tail of a Pin

By Járnviðr

On July 26, 2017

In Flashes

To clip the wings of an ophanim, one must be exceedingly careful. Their wings are not true wings; they permeate their bodies entirely. An ophanim without wings is no more alive than a chunk of celadon, for the wings are the body.

To extract the offal of a cherubim, merely read their true intentions. They are nervous creatures, easy to exploit. When forced to confront their own dishonesty, they will sag with the weight of their own heads. At this point it is safe to vivisect them, as their bodies are vacant of all virtue.

To abash the holiness of a seraph takes the mildest of trenchancy. Anyone can, with the right application of blasphemy, bring low even the highest order of angel. When their shine grows greatest, fear not. They are only trying to discourage you. The weaker creatures will try to salvage the kingdom, but you will have already won.

Fly Like an Eagle, Sting Like a Bee

By Járnviðr

On July 23, 2017

In Flashes

When the bird first visited us, we were young. We had just developed spaceflight, and the universe seemed so vast. Few among us believed in magic then; what was there to believe in? Magic is only what we call that which science has yet to explain. What the bird does is not magic. It is not technology, which is produced as the result of effort and progress over time. It is biology, it is nature, and it is inevitable.

When the bird first entertained us, we were learning. We learned where it had come from, and why, though it resembled a bird in some respects, it did not in others. Nothing from beyond the stars could be a bird as we knew it. The bird was more reptilian than avian, and unlike the raptors of Earth, who have a screech, the bird did have a song. It would never harmonize with the locals, but it sang.

When the bird warned us, we were amazed. The markings it left across our beaches, in our mud, and on our trees were nothing short of miraculous to the scientists. An alien life form has arrived, and it was learning to communicate. First with arrows, then with shapes, it built up a lexicon until finally it could draw what it wanted; a flock of “birds”, and a skull and crossbones.

When we first rejected the bird, we were divided. There were some who felt a kinship to the traitor, who abandoned its species to save another. They were given little chance to speak. Though the bird may have cared for us, it never understood how much more we cared for the universe.

Natural Formations

By Járnviðr

On July 13, 2017

In Flashes

Cato had elected to live a simple life. In his cave, no one came looking for him. That was why the knock at the door surprised him. Only a banjoher could knock on his barrier. Why would one of them seek him out now? A tense conversation via flag followed, and Cato retreated deeper, thinking about what his intruder had said.

The person at the door claimed to be his sister, though he had grown up as an only child. She was a banjoher, but they were rare. How likely was it that he had a secret banjoher sister? His years of dedicated study were nothing compared to what she could teach him. This was the perfect trap for a banjotak of his caliber.

There is no safety here, he signaled.

I am friendly. I come in peace, she replied.

You come hiding treachery behind your lies, he said.

I wish only to speak with you, she lied.

I will go to war before I let you pass, he retorted.

You will lose, she concluded.

Cato sized up his food supply. He could wait two weeks before stepping outside. That would give her time to admit her true motivations. Love! Family! As if.

Spotless Record

By Járnviðr

On July 10, 2017

In Flashes

Every nascent road trip is incomplete without tourist traps. Tiny title spots found everywhere along the interstates, tourist traps divert attention from the trail ahead. That’s what makes them traps. Every driver may have duties and responsibilities, but a few hours in a haunted hotel or underneath a strange statue would make anyone insouciant.

The king of the roadside attraction is the mystery spot. A strange breed, mystery spots topple the illusory sense of normalcy that daily life warrants. There’s nothing normal at a mystery spot.

Chip hopped off the back of the truck, waving to the driver. The driver gave him a tentative wave, shaking his head. It was harder and harder lately to hitch a ride lately. It was probably his age. When he was in his teens, he came across as bohemian and free-wheeling, and getting a ride was a cinch. Now he seemed eccentric and out-of-touch, and everyone chided him for his choice in lifestyle. Armed with a cassette player, a bowtie, and a Polaroid, he wasn’t exactly average.

Chip walked straight past the shack. Undoubtedly it would offer trinkets and souvenirs, but that wasn’t why he came. He came for the hills. As he walked further, the cries of birds grew louder and louder. There it was. A bird flying straight into the ground, its wings moving backwards. There were a few cars today, testing out the hill’s vaunted magnetic properties. They were always unimpressed until the car started rolling uphill.

Chip couldn’t care less about the cars, or he birds. He was here for something greater. He took out his favorite stone. Uncut and untouched cassiterite, on a band of twine. He put it around his neck. He closed his eyes, and he listened. There was the pulsing. The ebb of flow that the hills could give him access to. He reached out for the nearest tourist with his mind and his stone, and watched him crumple to the ground with a satisfying thump, blood beginning to spill.

Chip whistled as he walked downhill, pocketing the necklace. He loved mystery spots. They had the most fascinating people.