top of page
The following splatter of text is a running leap at some flash fiction. The inspiration and impetus for which comes from Chuck Wendig's weekly challenge http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2017/05/26/flash-fiction-challenge-fire-owls-magic-bands-wizard-vans-otter-gods/.  If you, like me, thought the result I have posted here a bit naff, -- and you care to follow along in the process of trying to figure out 'writing' -- look to my Log for a postmortem. If you don't see said post, I am either postmortem, or you are early.
​
BFFs

​

Shtuwart contrived to look disinterestedly involved perusing the cramped shelves of the Devil's Pants Pockets Mysteryistical Consignment and Swag shop. In pointy fact, he had his eyes set on one of the elegantly stabby blades gleaming in the glass case near the register, but did not wish to have his enthusiasm drive up the stakes. So, he poked and examined the eclectic and hokey things that were stuffed about the store. His magical senses were currently amped a bit thanks to the full can of Manna-Up energy drink he chugged a few moments before entering, and he was putting them (and some actual training) to good use.  Obviously, nothing of any real power or mystery was placed out where just anybody could grab it and explode.  Still there were some interesting, if almost useless, things lying about.  The dreamcatcher festooned with lazerbat wings emanated some residual energies and promised to trap nightmares and twist them into grinning fae-lights that chatter about the (inevitably lacking) quality of your soul.  There was a knot of dried glamdrake root for those that needed to brew a potion with an added dose of ostentatious sparkle. Yo-yos that sometimes returned different, nesting potion cauldrons that only ever weighed as much as the outermost pot, a yellow vest of expeditious retreat, and many things of far less certain function.

 

The shop door slid open. Shtubert winced as he recognized the profile of Glorbis Gof, a local henchbro for hire. His Aberzombie and Witch robes hung open to reveal the retro styled  Hypnosicans heavy metal (the actinides tour) t-shirt. "Suuuuuuuck," he thought, "I don't have time for whatever inane thing he's into today."  Shtubeans grabbed the nearest likely tome from a shelf of trash grimoires, and hid his face as deep into it as could be achieved without shifting his or the book's dimensionality.  If he had been more cautious in his selection, he likely would have not picked up the worn and stained copy of Lost Love No More, Finding the Romance in Necromance!, by Morbidran the Turgid, as the evocative cover drew the attention of Glorbis like a Ghastly Annoyance Moth to final exams week. 

 

Glorbis dramatically sniffed as he grinned, "Is that Chicken? Chicken Stew? Heya Studebaker! How are ya Stew?" Glorbis had the unique distinction to be, thus far, the only person that Shtuvol had met that never seemed phased by the botched Unknowable Name hex placed on Shturidal as an infant . The amateur enchanter slid over to Shtuberry, who was still hoping to remain hidden behind the pages of purple incantations. He snaked one hand on to Shtuborn's shoulder and thrust the other out in a clear demand for a hand grasping ritual thing. Shtuckey sighed and resigned himself to whatever humiliations were on the immediate horizon. Glorbis' hand performed some sort of elaborate sequence of shakes, fists, bumps and waggles that clearly needed little input from Shtuwt as he made random seeming sequences of noises that sounded like forms of 'dude', 'bro', 'home-wiz' and 'bizzack!' to accompany the . . . greeting.

 

"So...Still henching? I heard your last boss died in a typically horrible and exemplary manner," Shtuvisant was desperate to distract Glorbis enough to forestall him wondering why he was in the Devil's Pockets to begin with. Too much of the next few days' work depended on no one being aware of what he was planning. Glorbis shrugged, "Yeah, the Kegmeister was drowned and dismembered by his own beer golem, or beer elemental  -- beerlemental? It was quite the party," his smile took on a wistful air at the memory,  "My current former boss is about to get the pitchfork and torch treatment, I'm skipping out before I get flensed and enfuegoed.  I'm here to up my fundage and then disappear until the whole thing blows up."

 

Shtuoic forced an almost cheerful smile, "Well, that sounds like an idea. Good. Good for you, and good luck getting a decent price out of the weasels that run this joint.  Let's catch up if you choose to return." It sounded to Shtumar that whatever deal Glorbis was about to enact would take longer than he could afford to wait. He turned to leave while begining to mentally list places he may find a decent used instrument to fit his needs.  He had made it a few yards into the parking lot when Glorbis caught up to him, "Hey, SteweyStew. Hey bro, wait a minute. We might be able to help each other here. I can make you a good deal on some totally malevolent mojo."

 

"Why would you think I am in the market for 'mojo', malevolent or otherwise?" Shtumeo was not liking where this was going. Deductions and musings about his activities were not part of the plan.

 

"Dude. Its me. I know my way around in the dank. Only two reasons people come to the Devil's Pants. They are talentless and want to waste some coin on stupid kiddie tricks, or they are wizards looking for something dark on the down low. You are a wizard, hence and it follows to wit that you need something of which I speak. Q.E.D. Brofiend." Glorbis punctuated his last statement by tapping Shtunli with the back of his hand.

 

Shutolin's expression took on one typical of a wizard about to turn someone's flesh into living ants, or rather, he imagined it did. Really, he looked more like a wizard that had just stepped in a pile of orc droppings, though, the two expressions might easily be mistaken for one another. On the other hand, if he could get rid of Glorbis by buying some trinket, the day's planning might yet be salvaged.  "I cannot fathom what you are on about. But, as a matter of curiosity, let's say I am interested in acquiring some ill gotten means of ill. What could you have that might fill that need?" 

 

Glorbis held out a half filled rucksack that brimmed with strange and deadly energy.  Shtuncy peered inside and caught his breath. She was beautiful. Elegant and well formed, if the look of something could kill, this was that look in forged steel and bone. This had to be fate. Twisted, insane, absurd fate. "How much?"

 

Glorbis was mildly startled by the sudden positive attitude.. "What? You see something you like, G-magic?"

 

"How much for all of it?" Shtukolai could not take his eyes from the blade, it (she?) called to him so.

 

Glorbis didn't even blink as he lied, "I was gonna get maybe seven-fifty by the Pant's weasels..."

 

"Fine. Here's eight." There was no way the were-weasel proprietors of the Devil's Pants Pockets would give seven hundred fifty to a minion on the run for a bag of magical hell of dubious provenance. Eight hundred was enough to make it a no haggle deal.

 

"Right. Yeah, no. I meant seven-hundred fifty, bro. Maybe we can ne..." Shtumo cut him off.

 

"Eight hundred." He handed him a wad of notes and pulled the bag free of Glorbis's hand "Here. Now we both need to vanish, I think."

 

Shtunner watched Glorbis slip away before he got back in his beat up hatchetback coup.  There, under the fading daylight, he took out the new blade that he would use to etch out his future. His now ebbing mystical senses told him little of the knife's power, but he could hear her whispering her name. Speaking softly to him like a lover speaks to the beating heart of her chosen one as it slips out from between sundered ribs. Shtunorn whispered back, "Stabitha, my dear. You and I have much to do."

​

​

-Neocognitron -2017-6-1

bottom of page