The Lost Village in a Wall

So little remained where much had once been. A mound, hidden within a wall behind a modest marketplace; the last of the Village of Lyramph. Few knew of this collection of rock-even fewer understood its magic. None that frequented the market could fathom what occurred everyday, precisely at 3:07 in the afternoon. It would seem impossible to those who would not ever know its sight firsthand; how could a single ray of sunlight target a specific point on the rock mound with such consistency? Whether it be the cloudiest day of the year or not. Light always found a way through.

Jasooko had been up early. Thanks to his mother. She only feigned wanting his company. At least that much was in his favor. Getting away would be relatively easy, but he still had to be sly. Just because his presence was only worth the words spoken didn’t mean that the lie wasn’t being perpetuated and defended. He just needed a distraction and an easy way to separate himself before his mother managed to chain him to her leg.

Finding a pocket of people to merge into wasn’t hard; one was approaching now. A deep breathe and into the mass of people he went, his warden was busy eyeing some emerald necklaces handmade by the nuns who operated a small convent up the hill. Jasooko followed the mass until it reached the edge of the marketplace, at that point the mob had served its purpose. He left the strangers as he found them. Unaware of his existence.

He strolled around behind the concrete structure which housed offices belonging to those that oversaw the marketplaces operations. A beige building that blending in well with the mountains nearby. Hands in his pocket, ears tuned into all of the ambient noise he moved as far from sight as he could get-what he should have been doing was paying better attention to his untied shoelace. Whatever he did, it couldn’t draw any attention. He tried not to look over his shoulder. Not too often at least.

A gong, full of enough life to travel over ten miles in all directions, rang out from the town hall just up Market Street. One day Jasooko would have that honor. He’d have to become a man first though-he wasn’t in any hurry.

It was quiet back here, peaceful. Perfect. Little observable danger present, a quick glance over the shoulder confirmed that. Perhaps it would be wise not to let his guard down though, he wasn’t naïve like his little sister. How shameful that she still believed in the fairy king Neeulic. A story told from one generation to the next of an extinct group of creatures that once covered the land. Surely by six and a half one should be smart enough to understand the impossibility of such a creature.

Weary feet began to dictate the soon to be a man’s actions. No one would mind if he took a seat-no one was there to mind. It was just after 3:05 in the afternoon. By now he would have been caught had there been any chance of such a thing. Confidently Jasooko made his move. A collection of rocks, perhaps from an old city wall, had enough shape and design that one could certainly find comfort. Certainly the surface would be a bit more solid than preferred, but it was a surface he could sit on with relative ease. The rocks were cool yet he could feel a heat radiating from within. Quite uncomfortable.

Without warning his seat lit up as if there had been an eight hundred watt light bulb inside. An odd heat sensation on his butt forced him to take a few steps away from where he was trying to get comfortable. Too hot, in fact, to endure. Shocked and confused he stumbled. Fell. Should have paid more attention to his shoelace. Too late now.

No one was going to find him; not the thing to realize while your head is slamming against a mass as solid and as unforgiving as concrete. Even in broken form, his brain was no match for the surface. A moment before impact, proof his brain was mush, or at least soon to be. He saw it. Right where he had been seated, a small life form now stood, staring. It was a little unnerving, but it wouldn’t last long. Jasooko was unconscious upon final contact with the ground below.

When he awoke in the hospital nothing had ever surprised him more. Little memory of the preceding morning remained. The bowling alley actively operating inside his skull ensured that. There was something odd, a change that would carry with him for some time to come. He would never give a reason why, but Jasooko never picked on his sister for believing in king Neeulic. Not even late into their elderly years would he share why he was so adamant that she never forget. Never stop believing in the lost village.

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The Gagging Entry

And so it became time to submit.

I currently subscribe to several publications aimed at writers, one of which has a contest.  One doesn’t win large contracts or sums of money.  One earns the knowledge of the appreciation and perhaps a lit smidgeon of respect from other highly talented writers-plenty of winnings for me.

With that being said, I would have thought submission to the contest would have been simple.  A few weeks working on a story. Writing.  Cutting excessive words.  Correcting poorly written sections (more than I like to admit to, but one has to start somewhere.)  The process was relatively painless.  However, submission time and the mouth is stuffed with every intangible reason to delay, forgo this contest.

So what is it, a fear of rejection?  Doubtful, I did spend four years in a public high school in band and theater.  Rejection was rather commonplace.  So what?  The usual fear of failure?  Perhaps.  Sometimes I wonder more so if it’s the fear of success?

Sure, most authors may dream big, but what entirely does that mean?  Success is great on paper, but how many of us are grounded enough to retain the spirit of what makes our writing magical?  Will our next project be as positive as our last?  Can we hold onto the passion amongst the business.

I certainly am on board the train for a big successful future, but I do so after pulling out of my mouth chunks of business and reality.  If I’m going to gag myself I intend it to be for some other reason.

I guess time will tell whether or not my latest piece is a success, but one does have to wonder what’s next if it is.  I already know what’s next if it isn’t.  More.

Hopefully soon I can report a positive response to my contest submission.  If not I’ll at least have a story to share and get feedback.

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The Epic Tale of Sir Clucks o’Lot

A whispering wind carries through the weeping willows word of defeat.  Legends too have a beginning and an end.  Dew drops form on an unusually dry day-dripping from the leaves as the branches tremble.  A friend has fallen.  Only history now remained.  Only a history can now be shared.

It began on the third full moon of the eighth year after the cycle of the great chinchilla.  A man to bring about the future had been born.  Hatched from an unknown source into an world less than ready to receive.  Rumors had most people convinced that he had just appeared one day upon the horizon moments before sunrise.  A dramatic entrance.  Not quite a dramatic individual.  Yet he was as he needed to be.

Sir Clucks o’Lot walked the land with as much presence as a moth set on fire.  Horses were for the mere mortal, not to mention expensive.  Clucks o’Lot was from the line of Fowl-a prosperous line.  At least until late.  Of all that had come before him, he was the only one that remained.  No one was there to guide him, teach him, slap him around when he poked at bears with little sticks.

For an aimless individual however, Sir Clucks o’Lot had a heading.  Purpose.  Needs.  Odd sense of importance.  That warm fuzzy feeling that makes you want to hug something which will likely decapitate you.  And with all of those things he advanced across the terrain towards a collection of trees that would collect the first known event of Sir Clucks o‘Lot‘s life.

In the forest of Lost Guidance Figures he knew purpose waited for him.  Not literally of course.  Amongst the trees he would find more than just record keepers, he would find the first person to whom a record was worth making.

Sir Clucks o’Lot stepped beyond the threshold of trees without a pause or hesitation.  Occasionally he found himself caught amongst the underbrush, twigs, half dead branches and other assorted natural substances that were best not to explain.  Not even an untied shoelace dangling in the air could disrupt his torpedo like momentum.  Sap filled the air with an aroma as soothing as a perfectly prepared family bonding breakfast.  The sweetness formed tears that crystallized before fully falling from his eyes.

“Clucks o’Lot.”  There was a low, ground penetrating, voice.  Unwelcoming to say the least.

“I see a knight before me, calling me onto the floor.”

“Fight time.”  the Knight of Rudimentary weighed more in armor than in body mass, but none other than he would know that for sure.

There were two swords in the air before any sane person could interject.  Glints of brilliant light carved abstract lines into the trees around.  A little cling and a big sequence of clangs sent squirrels and bunnies into hiding.  Acorns and species perpetuation abandoned without a second thought.  Clucks o’Lot and the Knight of Rudimentary were well into an early performance of the Ballet of Clingy Clanging Swords.  It was a moving production.  There would have been a lot less fury animals running amok had there not been such movement.

“Why must you,” Sir Clucks o’Lot ducked diligently out of the way of his opponent’s unpleasantly sharp looking blade, “fight me?”

“Simply must.”

“Must we?”  A cheerful tap dance.  “Tell me what I need to know and I’ll be on my way.  Simple really.”

“Fight, die, secret stays.”

A reflection leapt from Sir Clucks o’Lot’s blade.  An agonizing face, eyes wider than the socket designed to hold them, mouth parted in more than one place.  That’s how it seemed in the brief reflection that followed a finely landed blow upon the side of the Knight of Rudimentary.

“He collapses.  Defeat?”

“I am your victor.  Out of honor and respect and all that which is duty bound and factiously robust I demand you tell me where the key of Lashier is.”

“Never.”  The forest echoed with a series of dull clunky clangs.

Sir Clucks o’Lot knelt by the side of his collapsed victim.  “Never, ever?”

“Death.” Only a lengthy exhale followed.  Someone it seemed really enjoyed onions and hot peppers.

Sir Clucks o’Lot covered his mouth and nose, something caught his attention in the action.  A medallion had been attached to the underside of the Knight of Rudimentary’s shoulder plate.  Rather shiny considering it’s been kept in an armpit for as long as Clucks o’Lot could surmise.

The medallion was only about the size of a quarter and after careful extraction appeared to be as close to a perfect square as could be determined without measuring tools.  With a weight of maybe only an ounce the object meant mystery.  Luckily that wasn’t all Sir Clucks o’Lot had to go on.  A small inscription, “In Puttinous, el Carumbatanous,” acted like a giant arrow.  And a giant warning sign of doom size dismemberment.

Welcome

Greetings… are you lost?  I know I am.

Welcome to my home.  Literary home on the wide wide wide world of the internet.  Very clucktastic.

Stories and other assorted nonsense to come soon.

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