A Dragon and a Drawing (Part 1 of 2)

Copyright © 2024 Josh Langston

The second son of the Earl of Bitford could already hear the songs they’d sing of his bravery; could taste the ale they’d pour in his honor; could feel the eager maidens wiggling in his lap like a sack of fat pups–and his quest was hardly a month old!

     Ignoring the heat, the sweat, and the deer flies that plagued him in his heavy mail, the young noble edged slowly up the winding forest path. He smiled in grim satisfaction as he recalled how his brother had quested for two years only to return in disgrace after trading his armor and mount for a homeward berth on a merchantman.

     He paused to adjust the shield on his back, thumbed the sweat from his eyes, and concentrated on the challenge ahead. As he stepped forward, his foot slipped sideways and banged up hard against a tree. As the stink of boar scat reached him, he cursed the peasants who’d sent him this way and reproached himself for carelessness.

     The pig trail he followed snaked its way up a wooded ridge. According to the villagers, it led to the ancient walls of castle Hasdahl where the dragon had been quiet for weeks–a terrible sign–for whenever the monster slept, it awoke hungry.

     He couldn’t fathom the cowardice of the peasantry which allowed them to abandon their offspring to a dragon. Yet, he was glad they hadn’t done anything about the beast themselves. The victims didn’t matter; they were commoners after all, and beneath his notice, but one among them was said to be quite comely. At the inn, he’d seen a rendering of the maiden left by a vagabond artist in payment for his board. If she was half the beauty captured in the drawing, a dalliance with her would be welcome. Besides, if she was lucky, he’d leave her with his get; a little noble blood would surely improve the local strain.

     He saw the top of the wall through the trees, and a single slender tower, nothing more. Too narrow to allow for more than a stairwell and a tiny, open floor at the top, the tower was fit for observation only–or for serving up a sacrifice.

     He froze. Something up there moved.

     Kneeling for cover, he shaded his eyes and stared. The girl in the drawing–it had to be! Her hair was long, dark, and full, and what he could see of her figure made him smile. “I’ll attend you soon,” he whispered.

     He surveyed the heavy forest pressing around the moat and surmised that dragons lacked the wit for tactics. He advanced beside the water until he reached a huge fir tree which had blown down and lay across the moat, its upper branches crushed against the wall. Looking from tree to castle, he smiled again.

       He tested the edge of his blade; he’d take the brute’s head with a single stroke–no sense waking it or making it angry. Besides, the sooner it was dead, the sooner he could slip out of his armor and into the village wench’s bed.

     Thick green moss covered the base of the fallen tree. He touched the surface with his boot and found it as slick as the pig scat, but since the lowest branches were only a few paces away, he stepped up onto it anyway. Arms out for balance, he advanced toward the wall.

     “You there, hero!” came a shout from the woods.

     The young noble turned in time to see a massive log, suspended by heavy ropes, hurtle toward him. The trees supporting it groaned. Unable to scramble away, and knowing his armor would drag him to the bottom of the moat, the only option left was to duck and pray. He dropped to his seat and leaned forward as the huge length of timber bore into him, compressed his spine, and drove his helmeted head through his shoulders and into his pelvis.

     As the log fell away, the mangled carcass of the Earl of Bitford’s second son sloughed quietly into the moat. The algae-thick water was barely still before the first flies settled on the red and brown smear that marked his passing.

~*~

     Sven One-arm swaggered from his hiding place to the moat. “Bring the hooks,” he said, peering into the soupy, green water. “Hurry! If the big ones get him we’ll be all day finding anything worth keeping.”

     “Did you see that?” asked his accomplice, a fat innkeeper named Flynn. His belly shook with laughter. “He looked like a melon under a mallet!”

     “The dumb sod stayed up,” Sven said. “If he’d fallen in like the others, there’d be something left to salvage.”

     Flynn tossed the hooks into the moat and pulled slowly on the lines, trying to snag the body or a piece of armor. Sven squinted at the water. “See any?”

     “Why? Do you want to reach in and grab him?”

     “And let ’em have me other arm too?” He rubbed the stump. Though it had been years since he lost the limb, there were days when he swore he could still feel it.

     Sven looked up at Rose in the distance. She’d been crying again, he could tell.  He didn’t trust her; she’d give them all away one of these days. They needed her to stand in the tower looking sad and beautiful, a job requiring neither brains nor skill. If the plan went awry–if even one hero escaped–all their lives were forfeit.

     Flynn smiled. “Got ‘im!”

     Sven stepped beside the innkeeper and grabbed the line. They backed away until the grisly remains cleared the bank. “Look! His blade’s still in the scabbard.”

     Flynn nodded and bent closer to the body. “The breast and back plates are ruined, but the mail’s intact.” He straightened. “He’ll keep. Help me with the deadfall.”

     After much sweat and strain, they hoisted the heavy log back in place, ready for the next victim. Sven put his lips to the end of a long wooden horn propped in the bole of a tree and blew a deep, raucous note they called the dragon’s belch. The sound echoed off distant hills, advising the village of another success and signaling an attack on the hero’s squire and anyone traveling with them. Afterward, a crowd would scramble up the trail to assess the take.

     Sven and Flynn scavenged what they could. They found a leather purse, fat with coins, and Sven tugged at a gold ring on the dead noble’s hand, but couldn’t get it past the knuckle. He cut the finger off, and the heavy ring rolled on the ground.

     Flynn pried off the ruined helmet and tossed it into the moat, then pulled a tiny gold crucifix from the crumpled body and added it to the purse. “A few more like him, and we can haul the lot off and sell it.”

     “Aye,” Sven said, “we’ll have to pay the levy soon. I just hate to take it very far with so many thieves about.”

     Flynn chuckled. Once they’d removed the armor and mail, and stripped off the undergarments, they rolled the body back into the moat. The water churned as the herofish tore into it.

     Sven shuddered, though the sight wasn’t new. The voracious fish, each as long as a man’s leg, often visited his dreams.

     “You’re not feelin’ sorry for him, are you?” Flynn had rinsed the worst of the blood from the dead man’s woolens and wrapped them around the salvaged armor.

     “Me?” Sven looked again at the girl still standing in the tower. “No, not me.”

~*~

     Rose peeked into the tavern’s common room at the first new hero to arrive in weeks. He looked to be her own age, not yet fully grown, though she guessed he was a match for any two men in the room. He sat by the cold hearth as the villagers complained to each other about the dragon; practice had made many of them accomplished liars. Yet, the newcomer’s interest had been more closely drawn to her portrait than to the exaggerations of the peasants. He’d stared at it as if enchanted before taking a seat and continued to glance up at it as he waited to be served.

     Dressed in linen and leather, he carried a wicked longknife and seemed comfortable without armor, mail, or companions. He had an easy smile. She wished she could read his mind as he lounged casually, listening to the villagers.

     “Please, don’t believe them,” she prayed.

     Flynn slapped her on the backside. “Gauging your chances with him, are you?”

     Rose rubbed her flank, embarrassed less by such familiarity than by letting the innkeeper catch her off guard. “You should leave this one alone; he isn’t like the others.”

     “Ah, you’re a witch now? Then look into the future and tell me how long I’ll have to wait for you to do some work. Or shall I sell you to the first man with a spare coin?”

     “Who’d climb your tower, then?” she asked, preening. “Fat Hildur? Black-tooth Bette?” She knew her importance to the village didn’t extend beyond her looks, and she was determined to get what value from it she could.

     Flynn smiled. “We can always find someone. You weren’t the first; you won’t be the last.”

     Rose swept an errant curl behind her ear. “But while I’m young, you’ll use no other.” She turned and walked away, knowing Flynn watched, and admired, her every move.

~*~

     “His name is Rindol,” the innkeeper said. “A noble’s son and wealthy as an Abbot, but he doesn’t care about the dragon.”

     “Nonsense,” Sven said. “No knight could resist such a challenge.”

     “This one can,” Rose said as she lowered a salver of steaming vegetables on the table between them. “He’s smart; he already knows it’s a trap.”

     Sven frowned and scratched his stump. “How would he know that unless you told him?”

     “She hasn’t gone near him,” Flynn said, “though it’s plain she wants to. Still, she may be right.”

     “I doubt it,” Sven said. “Has he seen the drawing?”

     “Aye, and he found it pleasing.” Flynn looked at Rose. “See how she blushes?  How’ll we keep the randy wench out of his bed long enough to lure him to the moat?”

     Sven let his gaze wander over the girl, appraising every curve. “She’s no fool.”  He stared into her brown eyes. “Would you risk your life for the chance to visit a noble’s bed?”

     “I might just visit yours….”

     “Oh?”

     “…but I’d bring a blade.”

     “Ho!” Flynn laughed. “I warrant she’ll take part of you with her when she leaves!”

     Sven sneered. “Go. We’ll decide what’s to be done and tell you anon. For now, stay away from the hero!”

~*~

     Rindol slept badly. He always did when he was about to do something stupid. If his old friend Jonah were still around, he would point out that chasing dragons was only marginally less stupid than chasing women. Jonah lacked his sense of adventure.

     Rindol suspected a hoax. He’d never seen a dragon, and while that alone proved nothing, he doubted the villagers had either. Their stories were all at odds. Some swore the beast was a he, others, a she. For color, the descriptions ran through the rainbow, and while they all said it was huge, they couldn’t agree on whether it had wings or breathed fire.

     It had to be a ruse, one designed to take his purse, or his life, or both. Only the sketch he’d seen at the inn kept him from leaving. He had to know if the artist portrayed reality or improved it. The girl’s image, though softened in his mind, still fueled his fantasies. He had to meet her. Would her manner be as fair as her face?  Could she speak? Could she think? Did she have a lover?

     He rolled his blanket, saddled his mount, and prepared to return to the tavern.  “You’re an idiot, Rindol,” he swore to himself. “She’s the bait in a trap for fools.”

     He swung into the saddle and reined his mount back the way he’d come the night before. Bait? Perhaps. His face split in a broad smile. But what magnificent bait!

~*~

  Rose trudged after Sven and Flynn to the false castle; she hated being near them. “Our hero may not care about the dragon,” Sven told her, “but he’s interested in you.”

     Flynn agreed. “We’ll tell him that as the oldest virgin in the village, you’ve been left in the tower for the dragon.”

     “But you said he doesn’t care about the dragon.”

     Sven smiled rudely. “That’s why we’ll tell him your only chance of survival is to lose your virginity.”

     Rose started to protest, then fell silent. Perhaps she could warn him before he started across the fallen tree. Maybe he’d be grateful enough to take her with him.

     The trio took a hidden route, through a tunnel under the moat and behind the “castle” wall. Rose had spent enough time in the cramped tower to review every stone in the crudely built enclosure. The dragon ploy had been used for years. The plotters had even tried to build something that resembled a dragon. Debris from their abandoned efforts littered the ground.

     “This way.” Flynn pulled an armload of vines away from a cave entrance. Sven stepped past the innkeeper, and Rose followed. A few paces in, a door blocked their path. Sven fumbled a heavy key into the lock and then shouldered the door aside.  Rose held her ears at the harsh squeal of the rusted hinges.

     When her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Rose gaped at the racks of armor and weapons crowding the rude walls. Two small, stout trunks stood open on the dirt floor. One appeared half full of coins, and the other bore a similar quantity of rings, pendants, and crests. The sight of so much wealth staggered her. “You’ve taken all this from those poor men?”

     “Poor?” Flynn laughed. “Poor men aren’t so burdened.”

     Sven growled at her. “It’s the only thing that keeps the tax collectors at bay. It means life to us.”

     “And death to the ones who owned it,” she said.

     “Bah! They were fools; they deserved to die.” Sven knelt in front of the jewelry chest. “If only they’d been foolish enough to travel in disguise.”

     Flynn nodded. “Many crests and signets are well-known. Few gold or silver smiths around here will touch them.”

     “Why are you telling me this?” asked Rose.

     “Because you’re part of it!” Flynn roared. “You live among us; you’re entitled to some of the rewards.”

     Sven grabbed her arm. “But ruin it, and you’ll get your reward early. I’ll feed you to the herofish an inch at a time.” He wiggled the stump of his arm at her. “I don’t care how pretty you are, and neither do they!”

~Be sure to tune in next week for the conclusion!~

Model Homes, a Not-So-Short Story — Part 2 (Encore)

Last week, we left our intrepid dollhouse hunter next to a barn at ground zero of nowhere. Her presence had just been discovered by the man she’d been following, a man she suspects of holding tiny humans captive. (You can read Part 1 here.) Herewith, the conclusion of:

… Karina spun around, her heart racing, an excuse already forming on her lips. “I– It’s not–”

The old man merely held up his hand and shook his head. “Please. Don’t take me for a complete fool. I saw you when you crawled into the back of my truck. I took the long way ‘round so you wouldn’t have an easy time figuring out where I was going.”

“It worked,” she said. “Where in the world are we?”

“This is what we used to call ‘the boondocks’ when I was a kid. That was a long time ago, but it still fits.”

“I meant–”

“I know what you meant, but I’m sure as hell not gonna tell you.” He swept his arm toward the front of the huge old barn. “It’s not like it’s a secret anymore. You might as well see the whole thing close up.”

Karina stared hard at him trying to determine if he carried a weapon of some kind, but he merely turned and walked away from her, empty-handed. “You comin’?” he called without looking back.

“Yes!” she replied and scrambled to catch up to him.

Together they walked through the open door into the barn. The upper lofts stood mostly empty, though they could easily have accommodated hundreds of hay bales. The middle loft housed what appeared to be workshops of various kinds, some obvious, like those for metal or woodworking, and others more exotic as if devoted to chemistry, electronics, and other highly technical pursuits.

“This is amazing,” Karina murmured as she turned completely around to take everything in. “It’s an entire community!”

“Actually,” the old man said, “it’s an entire race. The whole nine yards, every last member. They all live, work, and play right here.”

Karina looked into the man’s eyes, emboldened by the weariness she saw there. “How can you live with yourself knowing you’ve kept so many lives locked away in obscurity? How–”

“Stop!” he commanded in a voice heavy with anger. “Who are you to pass judgment on me? What gives you the right to make assumptions about any of this? You’ve taken one look at something I’ve lived with for decades, and suddenly you’re the expert?”

“Well,” Karina began, “it’s obvious–”

The old man shook his head; his slumped shoulders suggested either a very different story or an expression of guilt. Karina couldn’t be sure which. He kept twisting the gold wedding band on his finger, something she’d seen him do in the shop when dealing with an angry customer. She assumed it was merely a nervous habit.

“I’m the prisoner here,” he said wearily. “I have been for many, many years.” He waved his hand at the miniature community crowding the limits of his barn. “They’re the ones in control.”

“What? How is that possible? You’re so much… bigger. How could they ever control you?”

He pointed to the wedding band. “This is my slave collar. When they need me for something, they send a signal here. It itches like crazy, but my knuckles are so swollen I can’t take the damned thing off.” He shook his head and exhaled in resignation. “You have no idea how many times I’ve contemplated just chopping that finger off. But not even that would be enough.”

“I don’t understand,” Karina said.

“They’ve injected me with something, some kind of poison. I have no idea what it is, but if I don’t get a daily dose of the antidote, it’ll kill me. And not in a pleasant fashion.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. A tear formed and slowly traversed his wrinkled cheek. “I saw what it did to my wife, but I didn’t have her courage. She died rather than remain in bondage. I’m not brave enough to do that.”

Karina reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “I had no idea, Mr. Uh–”

“Danzig,” he said. “Oliver Danzig.”

“Who are they?” Karina asked. “And where did they come from?”

The old man pointed toward the ceiling. “They said they were colonists from another world. I have no idea which one. The name they gave me is meaningless.”

He gestured toward the work areas and sophisticated equipment. “Most of what you see in here came from their ship. Earth wasn’t what they had in mind when they left their homeworld, but it was the nearest one on which they could live when their space vehicle malfunctioned. They spent years trying to fix it, but eventually gave up.”

“And moved in here?”

He nodded. “They needed things they couldn’t make. At least, not at first, that’s why they needed me and my sweet Gerta.” He swallowed hard. “We were happy to help, at first. But their demands grew, and we had no time for our farm. They didn’t care. I don’t know when they poisoned us, but it was long ago.”

Danzig leaned against a stout wooden post that supported a section of loft. “I’m so tired. They finally agreed to let me modify and sell some of the homes they’d built for themselves. Making the changes took little time and generated a great deal of money. Enough to live on. When they needed something special, the funds went to pay for those things, too.” He spat.

“I was their delivery boy, their mule, their robot.” The anger in his voice grew with every word. “I’ve had enough. I’m tired. Done.”

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys which he handed to her. “Here. Take the truck. Go home.”

Karina looked at the keys and then back at Danzig. “How will you get back to–”

“I’m not going anywhere after tonight,” he said.

“But–”

“Please, just go. Now.” He pushed her gently toward the sliding door in the barn wall.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll tell people what I’ve seen? What you’ve told me?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.” With a firm hand on her lower back, he guided her toward the exit.

Concerned about what he intended to do, she put on the brakes. “Wait a minute. What are you–”

“What I intend to do is none of your business. I’ve tried to be polite, but perhaps I need to remind you that you’re trespassing on private property. I didn’t invite you here. You have no right to stay.”

“I just don’t want you to do anything rash.”

His expression told her he had no interest in her thoughts or opinions. “Goodbye,” he said as he slid the heavy wooden door shut and barred it from the inside.

Karina stood looking at the big building and pondered its astonishing contents. Eventually, she turned and began the short walk to the truck but stopped when she heard a new noise—not exactly an explosion, more like a profound whump sound. Moments later, smoke and flames appeared through a loft window.

“Oh, my God!” Karina screamed. “He’s going to kill them all.”

She quickly reversed course and raced back to the barn door and put all her weight into an effort to open it. The massive panel wouldn’t budge.

Hurrying around to the back of the building, she paused to take a quick look through the knothole she’d discovered earlier. Flames and more smoke obscured the scene but not the sounds of tiny voices screaming in pain and terror.

Sticking her fingers into the knothole, Karina tried to tear the wooden slat from the wall, but like the door, it didn’t move at all. Abandoning that idea, she continued moving around the outside searching for a way in, or a way to let the victims of the blaze out.

Sadly, there were no other exits.

She circled the building and stood out front, staring up at the loft window she noticed earlier. A tiny figure stood on the sill, clearly terrified. Karina thought it might be a female.

“Jump!” she yelled, moving toward the blaze. “I’ll catch you.”

Instead of jumping forward, the doll-sized victim screamed as the flames swept over her, and she fell backward, out of sight.

Karina dropped to her knees, numbed by shock and grief. The rescue had been so close, so–possible. And just as quickly, it had disappeared.

The heat from the now fully engulfed barn forced her backward, and she began to fear it might set the truck on fire, too. She climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and moved the vehicle to safety.

Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans to dial 911, the local emergency number. The “No Service” indicator on the phone told her the effort was futile. She shook her head knowing that even if she had gotten through to someone, the barn would likely burn to the ground before anyone could get there.

Her heart heavy with remorse, Karina vowed to stay long enough to look for survivors though she had no hope that anyone could have lived through such a massive and all-consuming blaze. She stood outside the truck and leaned back against it, her tears unchecked.

As the first rays of morning touched the eastern sky, Karina crept closer to the smoking ruins. Very little remained recognizable amid the sea of charred wood. Still, she picked her way carefully around the entire site, hoping to find something or someone who had survived. This was an advanced race, she told herself. Surely they had planned something in the event of a catastrophe like this. The smoldering wreckage, however, told a different story.

Turning her steps back toward the truck she almost missed the first sounds of distress coming from the woods a short distance away. Karina squinted but couldn’t make out anything in the shadows.

Soon, other voices joined the first, and a stampede of exceptionally small children emerged from the shadows racing pell‑mell toward the wreckage behind her.

One thought after another tumbled through Karina’s brain as she watched the horrified mob race toward their burned-out home. They hardly slowed down as they swept past her but came to a ragged and hysterical stop when they reached the vast pile of still-smoking cinders arrayed in front of them.

“Oh, you poor dears,” Karina said as she knelt down to get closer. “I’m so sorry.”

The tiny children were dressed in what appeared to be uniforms, their shirts and slacks all matched. The largest of the band, clearly their leader, stepped to the forefront, alternating looks of grief and hatred splayed across her face.

“Did you do this?” she inquired angrily, her finger pointed directly at Karina.

“No! Of course not. I would never–”

She was interrupted by the clamor of the adolescent mob, at least thirty strong, which stood behind their leader. Many of those voices called out for revenge, while others simply wailed for their lost families.

“It was Danzig,” Karina said, “not me. I swear it!”

“Who are you?” their leader asked as she moved closer, all the while motioning to those behind her to hold their place.

As Karina began to explain her presence, she felt the tiniest of pinpricks near her ankle. She reached down to rub it and saw the male version of the diminutive adult with whom she’d been talking. He held some sort of syringe in his hand.

“It’s done,” he said. “She’ll do whatever we need her to do.”

His co-leader looked at him and nodded, her expression grim.

“Or else,” she said.

~End~

Model Homes, a Not-So-Short Story — Part 1 (Encore)

For some reason, I have a soft spot for stories about people who aren’t quite as big as me. I’m a six-footer, so there are quite a few folks who meet that definition. Here’s a story about some more. Herewith, the first half of “Model Homes.”

Karina stared through the window of the dollhouse, enthralled by the exquisite miniatures inside. The detail went beyond anything she’d ever seen before, including a tiny food spill on a highchair in the dining area. She used a magnifying glass to verify that the almost invisible milk puddle contained almost microscopic Cheerios.

“How in the world do you do it?” she asked of the old man behind the counter.

“Trade secret,” he said, making an involuntary whistle through a gap in his teeth.

Karina straightened, her eyes taking in the price tag on the toy building she’d been inspecting. “The scale is unusual.”

The old man raised his eyebrows, then pursed his lips in silence.

“It’s much smaller than what I’ve seen in other shops.”

Low laughter punctuated the old man’s words. “I struggle to keep my own shop stocked. I have no time to worry about the competition.”

“But how do you do it? Each room is perfect. The accessories match; some of the furniture even shows wear. My God, some of the wall hangings could be sold as separate works of art if only there were a way to magnify them. How do you do it?”

He frowned a little before clearing his throat. “All it takes is time. And patience.”

“Ordinarily I’d complain about prices as high as these, but the detail…” Her voice drifted off as the shopkeeper excused himself to assist another customer.

“Mrs. Vandergriff! How are you?” he said to a silver-haired matron who stood frowning just inside his door.

“I’m not happy, Oliver. Not happy at all.”

Too curious to ignore the issue, Karina sidled closer while feigning deafness as she absently examined miniature linens stacked in a tiny wooden armoire.

“Do you recall the playhouse I purchased for my great-granddaughter?”

The old man nodded. “Of course I do. It had a country kitchen with lots of cabinetry. What’s wrong with it?”

“Something died in it. By the time my little Penelope unwrapped it, the odor had become unbearable.”

“That’s terrible!” exclaimed the old man. “I can’t imagine how something like that could have happened.” He appeared genuinely upset to Karina, and his distress seemed to mollify Mrs. Vandergriff.

“Did you bring it with you? I’d be only too happy to clean it up and make it right.”

The matron sniffed imperiously. “I couldn’t bear to have it back in my home. Just the memory of that smell is enough to– No, I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Then perhaps you’d allow me to come and collect it,” offered the shopkeeper.

“It’s too late for that,” she said. “I told the gardener to burn it. I’ve had the house fumigated twice on the off chance some vermin may have escaped from it. One can never be too careful.”

The shopkeeper appeared crestfallen. “Is there anything left of it? Anything at all?”

Mrs. Vandergriff shrugged. “Ashes possibly, if they haven’t already been spread on the flowers.”

“Then there doesn’t seem to be much left I can do for you,” he said.

“There’s the matter of my refund,” she said.

“What refund?”

“I want my money back! You sold me tainted goods.”

The old man squinted at her. “I can’t refund your money unless you’ve got something to return.”

“I’ve been a customer here for forty years,” she said. “I’ve bought your dollhouses for my children, my grandchildren, and now my great-grandchild. Are you saying I haven’t earned a little something in all those years?”

“Other than my gratitude?” he asked. “No.”

She scowled so hard her cheeks wobbled. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“He likes dollhouses, too?”

Huffing like a steamship, Mrs. Vandergriff executed a full right rudder and sailed out the front of the shop.

Karina straightened and gave the man a sympathetic smile. “You did the right thing,” she said. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Not from her, anyway.”

Karina tried to read his expression, but it appeared mostly blank.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to close early today. There are– I have some things to attend to. I can’t– I hope you’ll understand.”

“Sure, no problem,” she said. “I can come back tomorrow.”

He walked her to the door. “You might want to call first.”

~*~

Karina thought about the shop and its odd little proprietor all the way home. She had long since decided to buy one of the exquisite dollhouses, despite its insanely high price tag. Joe wouldn’t be happy about it, but he’d get used to the idea. But, just to be on the safe side, she decided to dig out one of the trashy little nighties he’d given her some years back. If she mentioned the dollhouse while wearing a half-ounce of lace and a smile, he probably wouldn’t ask too many questions.

The plan worked to their mutual satisfaction, and Karina returned to the shop the following morning, a Thursday, but it wasn’t open. Nor did the sign on the door suggest when it might re-open.

Results were the same on Friday and Saturday. By Sunday morning, Karina’s patience had worn completely through. By Sunday afternoon, she had convinced herself that the asking price for the dollhouse was actually quite reasonable, assuming she ever got the chance to shove some money at the old man. By Sunday evening, she realized that life without one of the dollhouses was simply unthinkable.

She had to have one.

Now–even if she had to sneak in after dark, grab one, and leave the money where the owner would find it. She contented herself with the thought that even though she had to break in, she wouldn’t be stealing anything.

It was a short drive to town, and the streets were empty save for the one in front of the First Baptist Church. She shook her head and muttered, “As if Hadleyburg would ever be big enough for a second Baptist church.”

The shop’s front entrance was shuttered and dark, so she walked around back and into the barren alley behind it. She carried a short pry bar she’d brought along in case she had to force her way in. A row of rear entry shop doors faced her, but only one held any interest. A single, naked bulb hung from a socket over the door and cast a feeble cone of light on the littered ground. The door stood slightly open.

Tempted to announce her presence and ask to make the purchase, she felt guilty for showing up at night when the store would normally have been closed. How would she explain that, or the pry bar in her hand?

Karina searched for a dumpster or a stack of boxes—anything she could hide behind while she waited for the old man to come out, but his truck was the only other thing in the alley. She touched it with a tentative finger then quickly withdrew her hand and wiped it on her jeans. The vehicle would have to do. She squeezed between it and the shop door and waited.

This is really stupid, she thought to herself. I should just go to the door, knock, and let myself in. There’s no crime in that. He’s got the dollhouse I want; I’ve got money. Who cares if it’s Sunday night? She set the pry bar out of sight on the ground and prepared to go to the door.

When the light over the door clicked out, Karina instinctively shrank deeper into the shadows. In the distance, a siren wailed. Her skin broke out in goosebumps. As if in accompaniment, the shop door squealed a ghastly harmony to the siren as the old man backed out of the building with a large cardboard box in his arms.

“Thank God that’s the last of ‘em,” he groaned as he levered the box into the back of his pickup truck. After locking the shop door he tried to raise the tailgate, but it wouldn’t stay shut. After muttering a string of obscenities, he secured the box with a pair of bungee cords and walked around to the front to get in.

Karina’s car was parked in front of the building. She had no chance to get to it without being seen, and if she waited until he drove away, she feared she’d be unable to catch up with him. He opened his door, and a light went on inside the cab. Karina bolted toward the back of the truck and scrambled in as the old man slowly eased behind the wheel.

Her pulse raced as he cranked the ancient engine, but beat even faster when she realized she’d heard something moving around in the box resting inches from her head.

She eased up to peek inside when the truck lurched forward, throwing her toward the box which crumpled slightly under her weight. Though surprised by the sudden jostling, it didn’t shock her nearly as much as the tiny, startled scream that came from inside the box.

~*~

The old man drove for what seemed like hours, though Karina never had a chance to look at her watch. All her energies were devoted to the goal of not sliding out the open end of the vehicle. The old man certainly didn’t drive like a senior citizen, and Karina avoided being tossed out by wedging herself sideways in the truck bed with her arms over her head.

They left town in minutes, then traveled through open countryside toward the low hills on the southern edge of the Smoky Mountains. Pavement gave way to gravel and then to dirt as the truck growled through the darkness. Karina cursed herself for being so stupid. Obviously, the old man was up to something, but that didn’t give her the right to stow away and follow him like some sort of spy. What would he do if he caught her? What would she do? And what—or who—was in the damned box?

Eventually, the truck slowed. Karina managed a hasty look before it came to a complete stop and saw a massive old barn, visible only because of a full moon and a cloudless sky. She scrambled to exit the truck before the old man could get out of the cab and work his way around to the back. Hoping to guess his intent, she knelt beside the tire on the passenger side and strained to hear him.

He muttered things she couldn’t make out, though it seemed clear he was unhappy. The bungee cords came free with a bit of clatter as they hit the bed of the truck. The old man grunted as he dragged the box toward the tailgate.

Worried he would suspect something because of the damage to the side of the box, Karina crept toward the front of the truck to stay out of his way no matter which direction he chose. The damaged container didn’t generate any comments from him as he lugged it toward the barn. He seemed oblivious to her presence as he reached the building, set the box on the ground, and struggled with a heavy, sliding door.

Though beset with worry over how she would ever return home, Karina also nursed a growing concern about the contents of the box, to say nothing of the man carrying it. When the door to the barn finally creaked open, she saw a brightly lit interior that left her stunned and confused. The door didn’t remain open for long as the old man closed it as soon as he had carried his burden through.

Karina crept closer, doing her best to remain quiet. She crept slowly around the old building hoping to find a gap in the boards or a window of some sort that would allow her to examine what she’d only briefly glimpsed. The mission seemed doomed from the start, but she stayed with it until she came upon a knothole that hadn’t been sealed from the inside.

Peering through the tiny viewport she observed what looked like a fairly ordinary suburban neighborhood, complete with single homes and apartment complexes. One thing made it odd, everything had been done in miniature. Unlike the dollhouses she’d seen in the old man’s shop, these buildings appeared whole; they had no open sides. Though she couldn’t be positive, she felt confident in her assessment that the little buildings were not only whole, but inhabited.

That conclusion brought her up short. What in hell was going on? Had the old man imprisoned an entire community of tiny humans? And where on Earth had he found them?

“Kinda figured I’d find you back here,” said the old man.

Karina spun around, her heart racing, an excuse already forming on her lips. “I– It’s not–”

~Stay tuned next week for the conclusion~

What’s a tree? (Encore)

This post may be familiar to my long-time readers since I’ve published it more than once. I’m doing so again because of my work with a new client. “Peggy” is a bit younger than me, and she has written a memoir that I found intriguing. Though we’ve lived through many of the same things and are both passionate about the craft of writing, she has a perspective I will likely never have. Peggy is almost completely blind, and she has been since the age of two. Her memoir obviously reflects that but does so in a way that demonstrates perseverance and determination. She’s not interested in pity, Lord no. She’s telling her story, and doing it not only well but in a way a sighted person would find extraordinarily difficult. Very shortly I plan to do a cover reveal and offer you a glimpse of her work.

For now, I hope the following will serve as a warm-up.

My niece, a medical receptionist, witnessed something inspiring not long ago in the waiting room at the doctor’s office where she works. Several people were waiting to see the physician, and among them was a little girl about four years old. She sat quietly beside her mother when she noticed a little boy in the waiting room. The girl asked her mother what was wrong with the boy, and her mother answered that he appeared to be blind.

The little girl didn’t understand what that meant and asked for an explanation which her mother quietly supplied.

At this point, my niece went back to her paperwork. But a short while later she heard the little girl talking again and looked up out of curiosity.

She saw the little blind boy smiling as he held hands with the little girl. She had closed her eyes tight and was doing her best to describe to the boy what a tree looked like.

When things like this happen, it restores my faith in mankind.

It also made me think about how difficult that little girl’s job would be. Can you imagine trying to describe a tree to someone who’d never been able to see anything? Where would you even start?

One of the most powerful tools a writer can employ is sensory presentation–using all the senses to convey information, not just that which can be seen. This means expressing story detail that relies on touch, taste, texture, and aroma. How big is a tree? What does it feel like? Does it have a smell?

It’s possible to stretch the sensory issue even more. Most people have nine senses. In addition to the five listed above, and originally noted by Aristotle, there are also the senses of pain, balance, heat, and body awareness–we know where our body parts are without looking at them or touching something. Neurologists have suggested many others, like hunger, thirst, or the sense of danger, senses included in countless narratives.

I have to tip my hat to the little girl in that waiting room. If she managed to get her ideas across, she may have a brilliant future ahead of her as a storyteller.

For the rest of us, especially the writers? We’d be wise to learn from her. If for no other reason, some of our “readers” will be getting their information from audiobooks. Think hard on that.

Be well. And take some time to write!

–Josh

Who Am I Writing For?

I last posted this question almost 13 years ago. At the time, I said I could have answered it easily in years past. I wrote for me! I was both my harshest critic and most zealous fan. For years this admittedly schizophrenic gestalt powered my writing and colored my outlook. I’m sure it’s also why I can’t write a single sentence without going back over it a minimum of four times to get it right. (And you thought Sheldon Cooper’s OCD door-knocking was strange… Hah!)

But the realization that I’d been fooling myself came as a shock. I wasn’t really writing for me; I was writing to meet the expectations of everyone who’d suffered through my work to that point. I didn’t have a “voice.”

While working with Barbara Galler-Smith on the Druids trilogy–book 3, Warriors, debuted in August, 2013–I began to get a sense of what I should sound like. But a collaboration is hardly the place for harnessing such a thing. A collaboration should bring forth the best that both contributors have to offer, and I firmly believe we accomplished that.

By the time we were done, however, I knew I had to write something in the voice that evolved over the seventeen years during which we labored on Druids. In contrast, my first solo effort, Resurrection Blues grew to maturity in a mere two months. And in the process, that nascent voice I’ve been babbling about became something I’m quite proud of.

I’m convinced I really am writing for me now. Best of all, that voice makes my work far more entertaining for anyone else who might discover it.

In recent years, however, I’ve come to realize another truth. In short, I’ve learned that even though I’m comfy with my voice, it still takes a hell of a lot of work to write a novel! I’m working on my 20th one now. Finally, here are some take-away truths (at least, I believe they’re true):

–I strive to make every book I write better than the last one I wrote.

–I will never tell the same story twice.

–My characters are never perfect, but there’s always at least one my readers will love.

–Every story I write must contain humor.

–I will never compromise on the quality of my work just to produce more of it.

If you’re new to my writing, please take a chance and read one of my books. They’re all right here on Amazon, and I feel sure you’ll enjoy each and every one, no matter how bizarre the plots might be!

Have fun reading, and be sure to let the world know what you think of them in a review!

Many, many thanks!

–Josh

Bang starts! (Encore)

You’re sitting in front of your computer, drumming your fingers on the keys as your coffee cools, and the remaining minutes of your hastily grabbed writing time are dissolving like an ice cube under a sun lamp. You grow more agitated with every passing second. You can hear your precious time dripping down the drain. And yet, you don’t have a clue where to begin.

What you don’t realize is that you’re at the perfect starting point! You can begin any kind of story you want. And best of all, you have the opportunity to start it with a Bang. Here’s the secret: merge something commonplace with something unexpected.

You’re familiar with the technique; it’s the fundamental element of almost every joke ever told. Consider the old stand-up line: “I met a guy in the soup line the other day. He said he hadn’t had a bite all day. So I bit him.” [Cymbal crash]

That’s the idea, and with a little effort, a story will evolve from that humble bit of wit. Here are some examples of ten different ways to get a story rolling:

 Try using a quotation:

“Don’t take yourself so seriously,” she said. So I laughed as I killed her.

After hearing, “It’s not you; it’s me. I’m the problem,” at least ten times, Juanita began to wonder if maybe the problem was something else.

Advice could be good. What’s the best you (or your character) ever received?

“‘Clean your gun every day,’ the old cowboy said, but he never practiced what he preached. He’s buried right over there, beside the dead rustler.”

Never juggle when you’re riding a bicycle. Trust me on this.

Similes and metaphors can be effective.

I married a vampire.

My job is like an open wound.

Pose an intriguing question:

Why do they always put the biggest butthead in charge?

If beauty is skin deep, how thick is ugly?

 Think about the future.

Five years from now I expect to take my father’s place as the CEO of Banister Technology. Of course, there’s always the chance he won’t live that long. Arsenic is funny that way.

Define something or someone:

I’m friendly and caring. My step-sister, though, was the poster child for lunacy in motion.

Paint a scene.

I always hated market day in Bridgeport. The sewage ran ankle deep in some places, and we could never afford to set up shop on high ground.

Use a comparison to someone famous (or infamous).

Jeb Dooley was every bit as clever as the Three Stooges or Wile E. Coyote.

Dorna had the looks of an angel and the personality of a Doberman pinscher.

Dilemmas offer great opportunities.

So little time, so many banks to rob.

One should never arrive late when summoned by a mob boss, or his girlfriend.

Make up an anecdote.

It’s been twenty years, and the memory is still fresh — the rock music, the odor of suntan lotion, the heft of a gallon of margaritas. Who wouldn’t remember a funeral like that?

Try it! What have you got to lose?

Oh! And Happy New Year!

–Josh

Have A Cool Yule, Y’all!

Seasons Greetings to all my SageLand friends. I hope 2024 is the best year you’ve ever had!

–Josh

PS: In case you need a holiday gift, why not click here anytime between tomorrow morning (12/25/23) and Friday at midnight (12/30/23)? It’ll take you straight to Amazon’s best book department. Once you’re there, you can download a FREE ebook copy of Veils, my latest novel.

Why a Christmas book? (Encore)

Let’s say you’re familiar with the Grinch; you’ve seen Frosty at least a dozen times; you know the names of all nine reindeer, and you’re pretty sure that when it comes to the parts of Christmas kids love most, you’re totally on top of things. Right?

Uh… nope. Sorry.

Now, before you light the torches, round up the neighbors, and hand out the pitchforks, you need to get the scoop on what’s afoot at the North Pole. More importantly, you need to know these revelations will, most likely, not damage all the centuries-old tropes about jolly old Saint Nick.

But, let’s face it, we’re well into the 21st Century, and there haven’t been any revelations about how all the Santa stuff we’ve come to know and love really works nowadays.

That’s just one of the thoughts that danced in my head when pondering what to put in a Christmas tale.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that some of the questions I had about the traditional Santa tales had been with me since childhood. Okay, so maybe I was a wee bit precocious, and/or my imagination might possibly have been tweaked by my incredibly inventive father. In any event, I had questions way back then, and they popped right back into my head as I worked on this story.

Questions like:

— Even if some rare strain of reindeer with the ability to fly actually existed, how come only Santa Claus was able to round them up? And why reindeer, when the world is chock full of amazing canines capable of pulling a sled?

— Using “A Visit From Saint Nicholas” (ie., “T’was the night before Christmas…”) to establish a timeline, almost 200 years have passed. The population of the Earth has increased to nearly 8 times its size since 1800. How has Santa managed to take care of such an increased load?

— I don’t ever recall receiving something from Santa that appeared to have been made by hand, and I suspect those who did were in a distinct minority. So, how had Santa managed to industrialize the operation? What happened to all those poor elves?

— How did someone so old and so busy ever manage to work his way into the countless millions of homes without chimneys?

There had to be answers to these and many other questions, and therein lay the heart of the story. It was nestled somewhere between a child with a mysterious illness, a shopping mall Santa Claus trying to redefine himself, and the profoundly difficult challenges of delivering gifts to hundreds of millions, maybe even billions, of deserving children.

All I had to do was write it.

Fortunately, I had the assistance of all the pets, and their owners, who live on our street. The result of our combined efforts is a family-friendly Christmas story that supplies all the answers. It’s called A Season Gone to the Dogs.

Consider it my gift to everyone I know and anyone who’d like to find out what’s really happened to Santa’s mission and his secret hideaway after all these years. So, Season’s Greetings, Happy Holidays, and Merry Christmas to you all!

Beginning tomorrow, Dec. 18, and continuing through Friday, Dec. 22, you can download the ebook version–for FREE–from Amazon.com. Just click HERE if you’d like to save some time.

For those of you who take advantage of this offer, I would appreciate it very much if you would post your thoughts about the story in an Amazon review. Let’s share this tale far and wide!

Best wishes to everyone, just a little early!

–Josh

PS: This is for my many friends living within driving distance of Canton, Georgia (and folks willing to make the trip from anywhere else!): My bride and I wandered into a new restaurant in downtown Canton called The Holler. Now, I don’t post advertisements on my blog, except for my own books of course, but I felt I needed to break the rule this time. Why? Because we had such a wonderful time there! The food and beverages were excellent, and the service was fantastic. It’s a place where folks can just be folks. There’s no need to dress up or pretend you’re dining in one of those overly decorated or piously pretentious foodie magnets. Watch a ball game! Hell, if the weather’s nice, you can play a game of your own; there’s plenty of space. Snuggle up by the firepit. Have fun! And you never know, we might just see you there.

Here’s the link: https://thehollercanton.com/

The Worst Christmas Ever (Encore)

Darby Jones grimaced as he packed the last of his collection of chubby, stuffed gnomes into a box for the return home. A new departmental edict banned all such decorations. Instead, each worker was given a replica of the eagle which appeared on the dollar bill and the presidential seal. It clutched arrows in one set of claws and an olive branch in the other. The birds stood on black, plastic pedestals and came in silver, copper, or gold depending on the rank of the worker to which it was given.

“I can’t believe he’s done this,” Darby complained to his equally dismayed co-worker, Agnes McGee. “I’ve put my little collection up in my cubicle every year since I started working here. Nobody ever complained.”

“That was all before the new boss arrived,” Agnes said.

Darby glanced around before responding, “He should change his name to Grinch.”

“Or Scrooge,” replied Agnes, a woman who’d occupied the cubicle next to his for several years.

“I’ll say this for his appointment.” Darby checked again to make sure no one else could hear him. “They picked the right guy for the job. I don’t know of anyone who hates the holidays more than Simon St. John.”

“A saint, he ain’t.” Agnes pursed her lips. “Have you seen the list of charges he drew up? The so-called crimes he intends to prosecute?”

“Crimes? Seriously?”

Agnes ticked them off on her fingers one by one, “Breaking and entering, illegal trespass, flying an unlicensed aircraft through restricted airspace, and that’s not all.”

Darby clenched his jaws. “I was only aware of the first one, but I didn’t really believe it.”

“Oh, it’s real all right, but that wasn’t enough for St. John. He’s also working on labor law infractions; he’s got a team pouring over OSHA rules and regs, and he’s appointed someone to draft a major complaint about discrimination.”

“You’re kidding,” Darby said. “Discrimination?”

“According to St. John, the old guy only hires elves, nobody over three feet tall, give or take.”

“But—”

“And then there are charges of animal cruelty. Something to do with reindeer working extended hours in all kinds of weather. He’s even got somebody working on that.”

“We have to do something,” Darby said. “This is crazy. If he’s allowed to continue, he’ll destroy the holidays!”

Agnes exhaled. “Maybe, maybe not, but he’d for sure destroy the commercial side of things. People will still have the freedom of religion. They just won’t have… You know… The whole North Pole thing.”

“C’mon, Agnes, think about it—no more kids carrying their wish lists to the mall for a visit with old Saint Nick. Instead, it’ll be ‘Celebrate the season with Santa in Cell Block C.’”

“But we’ll still have the religious side,” she insisted, though her voice betrayed a lack of conviction. “And we’ll still be able to exchange presents.”

 Darby shook his head. “I’m not sure about that. Just the other day I heard our ‘dear leader’ complaining about the vast inequity of gift-giving. He thinks there ought to be some federal guidelines about who gets what, and how much anyone should spend.”

“Bureaucrats already have a dreadful reputation, but Simon St. John will add a whole new layer of—” Agnes abruptly went silent.

Darby took the hint and tried to appear casual as he turned his head to see what had caused Agnes to go silent. A pair of men in plain black suits and dark glasses had entered the room. They walked purposefully between the rows of cubicles, peering intently over the low walls as if looking for intruders. Occasionally, one or the other would adjust the bald eagle decorations adorning each of the workspaces.

“What’re they doing?” Agnes asked, but Darby remained silent.

When the two men reached them, they stopped and examined the security badges Agnes and Darby wore. One of them made a gesture to the other, who looked into the box on Darby’s desk.

“Thought so,” he said. “Pick that up and come with us. Now.”

“I packed ‘em up as soon as I heard about the new—”

“Shut up, and do as you’re told,” the man said, his voice cold and flat.

“You can’t talk to him like that,” Agnes said as she put her hand on Darby’s arm.

“Looks like you’ll be coming along, too,” the other man said.

“What? Why? What have we done?”

“It’s an obvious case of conspiracy. You’ve virtually indicted yourselves by discussing plans to disrupt the Seasonal Reality Statutes.”

“That’s absurd!” Darby exclaimed. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s not how Commissioner St. John will see it,” the first man said. “Hope you weren’t planning anything special in the next few weeks. You’ll be confined to units in the Attitude Assimilation dorms.”

“I have to call my husband,” Agnes said.

Darby chimed in, “And I need to call my wife!”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll advise your emergency contacts about your status.”

~*~

“So, Jonesy, what did yer old man think of the new UIVR?”

Darby Jones, Jr. lowered his head. “Dad said it sucks, and whoever invented Ultimate Immersive Virtual Reality should be shot, or worse.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t have a fun trip.” Darby Junior’s friend, Louie, chuckled. “Which scenario did you give him?”

“The St. John thing. I mean, it made sense to me, ‘cause Dad’s always complaining about the commercialization of Christmas.”

“Oh, man. That’s a tough one to start with. I hope you gave him the code word so he could break out of the storyline.”

“Actually, no. In all the Christmas morning excitement I sorta forgot.”

“Oh, geez. What’d he do?”

“Other than ground me until Spring Break?”

“Seriously? Until Spring Break? That’s like months from now!”

“He said it was only because grounding me for life wasn’t an option. And he said it right after he smashed my UIVR headset with a sledgehammer.”

~End~

I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday season and a healthy, happy New Year.

–Josh

Ask any kid; they’ll tell you… (Encore)

Okay, so it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. And yes, I know everyone complains that businesses push to get the Christmas shopping season started earlier every year, and that is undeniably true. BUT–sometimes getting the jump on the holidays is a GOOD idea!

Imagine you have a carload of folks riding with you to visit relatives. You can listen to the radio playing the same old tunes over and over, or you could pop in a brand new CD and listen to that for an hour or so. And how much did you shell out for that CD? Ten bucks, easy, unless you scooped it outta the Bargain Bin at Dirty Dan’s Discount Dump and Body Wax Emporium. (Heh, like you thought we didn’t know where you shop!)

OR, you could try something completely new and different for a whole lot less money. Get it early and you can enjoy it long before the holidays even begin, and long after they’re over, too. Want a sample? Check this out:

Paul Licameli has done an amazing job with this production. Not only does he handle a wide range of character voices, he does so in such a way that every last one of them comes absolutely alive. He had me wondering what would happen next, and I wrote the stories! That’s what a consummate professional does, and it’s a testament to his skills behind the mike and everywhere else in the studio. You’ll enjoy his performance for years to come, I promise. And, just to save you a little time, you can click right here to snag a copy for a mere 6 bucks.

However, I know there are lots of people who’d rather just curl up around a good book, or maybe a Kindle, and let their imaginations take them on fanciful journeys. If you’re in that camp, I’ve got just the thing for you, and it’s been endorsed by The Man Himself. In fact, I managed to get a photo of him with the print version of these very same tales.

It’s not often that I have the opportunity to show my appreciation to everyone who follows this blog, but I’ve found a way. If you’ll trundle over to Amazon tomorrow and look up Christmas Beyond the Box, or just click HERE, you can get a copy of the e-book version absolutely FREE!

Naturally, there’s a catch. The free version will only be available for five days beginning tomorrow, Sunday, Dec. 4, 2023. The last day to grab a freebie will be this coming Friday, Dec. 9th.

Final thought: if you’re looking for traditional holiday tales along the lines of Frosty Knits Mittens for Kittens, then DON’T DOWNLOAD THE BOOK! You’ll only be disappointed, because these stories are fresh and new, creative and different. But mostly, they’re just great fun. I promise. And hey, they’ve been endorsed by The Man Himself!

–Josh