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Not only that, you’ll get new stories as I write them. That’s about one a week, at the moment.
And they’re more fun to find in your in-box than more ‘BUY MORE STUFF!’ messages too.
In this time of Christmas cards and pretty songs, we’ve forgotten the robin’s full name.
Long ago, an ice dragon came to Albion. The King of Birds sent his best warriors – the hawks and the eagles.
They were frozen.
But the robin, being small, approached unseen. He saw the dragon, surrounded by snow, and inside its crystalline body he saw its red, beating heart.
Robin flew under the dragon’s belly and stabbed straight up. The hot blood melted the dragon’s body, and stained the robin’s chest.
So next time, remember it’s not just a robin. It’s Robin Red-breast, Dragonslayer, Champion-in-Snow.
Cameras flashed. Microphones were poised. The royal couple sat at the front, holding hands.
The name of their first child had been subject to intense speculation. Every paper had held the front page. Bookies were still taking bets.
“We’ve chosen a name,” the Princess announced, and every reporter noted her cute button nose and rosy cheeks. “Princess Chuzzlewitt Lemongrass P’tang Dewdrop III.”
Over the hollered questions, the Prince and Princess collapsed in laughter.
A functionary tapped her shoulder. “Your press secretary, ma’am.”
“Is that on speakerphone?”
“No. He’s a trifle upset.”
She wrinkled her cute button nose. “Totally worth it.”
Mama remembers the day the world fell down. My fault, she says.
Right terror it was; shacks like our place collapsed all over. Even the richfolks’ places fell. After shakes, poorfolks and richfolks seem much the same.
But our house was OK. Mama says she did so much shaking, the house couldn’t do no more.
All the neighbours were out, running, screaming, and they yelled at Mama to come out. But she wouldn’t come.
And then, the quiet. Our house was the only one standing.
And in that house was Mama, and me. Mewling, bloody, and freshborn. Miracle, Mama says.
I waved hello to Wilson, my neighbour, and then his head exploded.
His body collapsed onto the lawn, surrounded by a pattern of burnt wires, screws and twisted metal. One of his eyes landed in my coffee, bobbing there like a startled marshmallow.
“Oh no…” his wife came running out. “Not again! They said he was fixed properly last time.”
I shrugged, sympathetically. “Engineers always say that.”
“I suppose. But you never have that problem, do you?”
“Me?” I fished out his eyeball. “Why would I? Sandra’s not a bot.”
“Well, no, but you… oh. Oh my. Didn’t you know?”
One day, before there ever was a night, Magpie flew up and stole the sun.
This caused some complaint. Magpie didn’t want to give up his bauble, so he made a foil ball and put it where the sun used to be.
Foil light was weak, and people still wanted the sun back. But Magpie pointed out that some – the owls, the bats – liked his foil sun better.
So they compromised. Now, for half the day everyone has the sun, and for half the day Magpie has it all to himself.
And that’s what the magnificent bastard is laughing about.
I met a man with a limpet shell on the shores of Dozmary Pool.
“What ails ye?” said I.
“Thirst,” said he. “Forever I empty this cursed pool, while forbidden to drain her water myself.”
“If ye cannot drain yersel, I will for ye.”
So I took the shell, filled it, pressed it to his lips.
“Thankee for emptying the pool for me, boy,” said he. “I’ll see you dreckly.” And he vanished with a laugh and a shriek.
I made to cast aside the shell, but found it now heavy as granite, and my feet moving unwillingly to water.
“…and now I’m ready to start.”
– Arcade Fire
Here we go.
New stories every Tuesday and Friday. Check back regularly, or use that RSS widget thing, or stick your e-mail in the box on the right. My preference is for the e-mail, but whatever butters your crumpet.
I’ll put up a couple from the original November 30 here to start off. It’s totally because I’m a generous person, and in no way because I want to try out different themes with a bit of content.
Keep reading,
N