Monday, March 23, 2015

FINISH THAT THOUGHT #2-38




Welcome back! Life has been crazy here this weekend - the twins turn six today (Where has the time gone??? (It probably left with my sanity...)), and we had their party on Saturday. A fun time was had by all, and I'm exhausted. :) Hopefully you're less exhausted than I am and have some energy to tackle this fantastic prompt! Have at it!



If you haven't read the full version of the rules, go here. Otherwise, here's the short version:

Rules:
1. Start with the given first sentence.
2. Up to 500 words
3. Keep it clean (nothing rated R or above)
4. Optional Special Challenge
5. Stories submitted must be your own work, using characters and worlds that you have created. Sorry, no fanfiction.
6. Include: Twitter/email, word count, Special Challenge accepted
7. The challenge is open for 24 hours on Tuesday EST



Oh, and feel free to change pronounspunctuationtense, and anything in brackets to fit the story/pov/tone. I'm not going to be TOO picky... Our judge however...


Our Judge today is Ray Morris, also known as @iwrites. Read his winning tale from last week here! Check out his blog here

Ray Morris makes his home in the wilds of West Texas, among the dust and devils. He got started along the path of writing when he stole his brother’s Dragonlance books at the ripe age of 12, and hasn’t looked back since. He is currently querying his first novel, working on several more, and begging his Muse to give him a break. However, since his day job is driving for eleven hours straight, he has way, way too much time to think.


When not writing some dark and usually disturbing Flash Fiction, he’s relaxing at home with his wife and dogs. And her cats. Always, her cats.




 Your first sentence for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #2-38 is:


They never asked why [I] set the tree on fire.



 Your SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge is:


Include at least THREE of the following: meteor, blood, shark, ice, water, horn, wolf, dragon, ninja



 
AAAAAAAND WE'RE OFF!!!







15 comments:

  1. Cinders
    468 words
    @laurenegreene

    They never asked me why I set the tree on fire. They simply dragged me away, my face covered in soot from the cinders. The tree, they said, was a national landmark. Dry enough to burn down the whole forest if they hadn’t caught me.

    The policeman threw me down in the office chair, and bellowed at me as the EMTs checked me out. I fingered the plastic dragon in my pocket, Henry, I’d named him, and he was there to keep me safe.

    “Right—so where are your folks?” the policeman asked.

    I shook my head.

    The policeman paced in front of me as the park ranger came up and tapped him on the shoulder. The park ranger whispered something into the policeman’s ear, and nodded my way, then they both walked off.

    One of the EMTs had smiling eyes and pigtails. She took my hands in hers.

    “Can you tell me your name?”

    “Mikey.”

    “This looks like a fine karate uniform you have on, Mikey,” she said.

    “I’m a ninja! From Japan. And my dragon,” I said, pulling it from my pocket. “It helped me beat the wolf.”

    “What wolf? There aren’t wolves in these woods,” the nice lady said.

    “Are too. That’s why I burnt down the tree.”

    “Where are your parents Mikey?” she asked.

    I didn’t answer. Grainy memories of my parents played in my head. I hadn’t seen them in years, and that said a lot seeing as I was only six. I couldn’t stand the foster home I lived in. The older boy picked on me, something dreadful, and I had decided I was going to run away and join a circus. Be a clown, or better yet, a lion tamer. With the dragon, I knew I was capable of anything.

    “It must be awful special to you,” the nice lady said, squeezing my hand. “You’ve rubbed off his eyes. Where did you get him?”

    “Mom. She gave him to me, when I was little. She and Dad took a drive somewhere. I can’t remember. It’s fuzzy—like a peach. He made me safe for three days, until they came and took me away. They told me they’d find me a home. But I haven’t had a home since.”

    The policeman and the park ranger came back and hovered over me.

    The nice lady EMT wiped the soot off my face and my arms with a wet rag. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her neck, squeezing her tight. She patted my back and squeezed me back. Her hair smelled like green apples, sunshine, and happiness.

    “I reckon he’s too young for juvie,” the policeman said.

    “He just needs a mother to love him,” the nice lady EMT said.

    “Will you be my mommy?” I asked.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Title - The Grass Never Grew

    They never asked why I set the tree on fire. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they never understood. Mom and Dad drug me to all kind of doctors, and I spent months in therapy. I still have to take these stupid pills. And I’m in the middle of 24 months of civic service as punishment for setting that tree on fire. And no one ever asked why I did it. Not even the doctors. All they ever said was, “You set a tree on fire. That’s wrong. Here’s what we need to work on.”

    But, see? It wasn’t like that at all.

    There was a place on the ground, beneath that tree, where the grass never grew. Dad tried for years to grow anything there. He even planted that stuff that’s supposed to grow in the dark, without any water. Nothing. Nothing grew in that spot under that tree.

    No one knew why, but me.

    I used to sit on the back porch, and watch her on the swing. Yeah. I know. There was no swing. We never put one up. But she was there, on the swing which hung from the lower limb of that tree. She played there every day. Her name was Barbara. I know, ‘cause I asked her.

    “I’m stuck,” she told me. “I’m stuck doing this over and over. I can’t escape. I’ve tried.”

    “Why are you stuck?”

    “Watch me every day. You’ll see.”

    I did. I watched her every day. She was always there, swinging away. On the 100th day, everything changed. Barbara climbed the ropes for the swing. She climbed into the tree. She got to the lower branch, worked her way to the trunk, and then moved from one branch to the next, as up she went.

    She climbed really high. It was exciting to see. She climbed all the way to the top. Then, she balanced on the branches, and reached for the sun. Like she wanted to hug it. “I’m free!”

    There was a sick sounding crack from one of the branches she was standing on. I watched as that branch gave way. Barbara fell. She bounced off branches. Limbs stabbed her, tore at her skin, her clothes. She fell from the tree.

    Barbara was dead. I knew that. But, you see, she landed in that spot where nothing grew. Everywhere she touched the ground, every place a drop of her blood landed. Nothing grew.

    The next day, she was on the swing again. “I’m stuck. Now I have to do this all over again.”

    See. That’s why I set the tree on fire.

    Now, Barbara’s free.

    439 Words
    @LurchMunster

    ReplyDelete
  3. Word Count – 489
    @susanOReilly3
    Special challenge accepted


    Possessed


    They never asked why I set the tree on fire just dragged me kicking and screaming blood streaming from my nose. They didn’t let me stay to watch if it burnt to the ground.

    That tree has been my nightmare for years but lately it’s haunted my days as well. Its bite way worse than its bark, sharp tendrils pinching me like the teeth of a baby shark.

    At first my child’s brain thought it was fairies I’d seen playing at the tree, thought it was their meeting place. I realized eventually they weren’t playing when I saw the witch step from the tree and swallow their cuteness one by one.

    I put it down many times to just a bad dream and for a long time barricaded it from my view until the night when there was a tip-tapping at my window and when I removed the pillows there was the tree manically grinning at me. My parents hushed me to sleep told me it was just my imagination but I knew better. I removed the barricades I needed to keep a close eye on my enemy.

    I took up karate but the tutor got annoyed because I just wanted to learn how to attack like a ninja possessed. I had no interest in self defence because in my mind I already knew if I was ever to have a chance against the witch I would have to take her completely by surprise.

    I begged my parents to chop her down but they said no because she blossomed so prettily in the summer, I gawped, my fear was no substitute for her beauty apparently. I later heard them whispering that they couldn’t give in to me it was something I would grow out of.

    She whistled at me whenever it was windy and tried to lull me into a false sense of security on beautiful sunny days but I would not be fooled, she was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

    I secreted the matches for a long time I had to have enough to do the job and waited for the time that they would both leave me alone. That was today when I ran at the tree full force assuming I would knock her out, and broke my nose. Slobbering and sniffing blood and spit I lit the sticks I had secreted and placed at the base of the tree. I finally got a flame and watched with glee, I thought I heard a scream.

    I had it was my mother rushing out to save me. I sit and watch Dr. Kavanagh as she keeps trying to cajole information out of me but she never gets anywhere and never answers my question either. “Did I burn it to the ground?” My parents don’t answer it either but I can sit in this clinic until they let me go home and see for myself. I worry about them.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Foy S. Iver
    @fs_iver

    WC: 440
    Special Challenge: Accepted

    Peacocking

    They never asked why he set the tree on fire. No one cared. It was a single tree and there were others like it at the City Park. He even called the Municipal Police and what did they say?

    “Was it that ugly one with the weird roots sticking out? I tripped on that thing the other day. Ah, good. Thank you for your service”

    click. Bmmmmmmmmm.

    He stomped his red and black rimmed boots (Brunello Cucinelli) into the soil, crushing a scorched twig. His job was getting harder with each apathetic day. Being a super villain is impossible if no one notices your heinous deeds.

    Just last month, he had unleashed a Wolf-Shark (patent pending) into the Town Center’s fountain. Total damage? One pinky. A child reached out and her dolly came away with one less digit. City Hall’s janitor fished out the predator and compacted $3 million worth of wires, gadgets, and metal into a cafeteria tray. Next time he would shell out and make the Wolf-Shark life-sized.

    As he slouched back to the lair, the tree succumbed to tongues of flame. Where did it all go wrong? Why had the splendor days of unleashing dragons and calling down meteors fled?

    In his ice-heart, he knew the answer. Captain Everywoman was to blame. Before she retired from the heroing business, she’d warned him this would happen. She’d seen the indifference on the faces of those she’d rescued, heard it in their flat “what took so long”s, felt it in the loneliness of forgotten fame.

    “Give it a rest, Byron. Battles between good and evil don’t draw a crowd. We aren’t needed anymore.”

    He’d refused to believe that. Even after she’d retired to an undisclosed location in the Rocky Mountains (327 Pine Ridge Rd. Leadville, CO 80429), he’d nibbled on that crumb of hope. Maybe she would come back, squeeze those luscious hips into tight leather, and wield her Walther PPK against his mini ninjas (MiniNinjas: Faster and More Deadly than You Think! ©). Happy shivers sent his blood rippling.

    No, he wouldn’t admit defeat. A cackle broke free as he pushed open the blast doors and entered his appropriately dank kingdom. Already plans steamed in that sinful cerebrum. Children released with horns pitched to provoke barotrauma. See if humanity could feign disinterest with blood spurting out their ears. Their groveling cries would stir the heart of Everywoman and she would descend from that holy mountain. He and she united again!

    And if that didn’t draw her from retirement, he promised himself he would consider other tactics. AllTheRoses.com had incredible deals this time of year.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Burning bright

    @geofflepard 490 words

    They'll never ask why I set the tree on fire. They never asked why I burnt anything. 'Just go outside, will you?' Someone said I was feral. I had to look that up. But, yeah that's me, half tamed.
    It wasn't always like that. When dad was about. My real dad. I don't remember him, not an image, you know? But he had a smell. If I smelt that again I'd know it was him. Part was wood chip, him a carpenter. But there was something else, when he held me.
    Someone, one of them socials, she asked me if I didn't have a picture of him. Stupid cow. I burnt it didn't I? I mean it's not like I don't blame the fucker for leaving. Course I do. She told me it was another woman, but then she told me my step dad was a 'fine man' and that he hit me 'to help me understand'. So I suppose it was another lie.
    I don't blame him for leaving her. I wanted to, for years, not that she let me. Why do people assume adults tell more truths than children?
    No, what I blame him for is not taking me too. I'm not saying I'd have been different. Just I might have had a chance to be.
    He started me off on the burning caper, too. Used to have these little fires - 'conflagrations' he called them. I remember that. Why do I remember that when I can't picture him? They told me once it was because of the trauma, not being able to remember him. They said I must have blocked out that last time.
    See, that's the thing. I remember the fire. I remember how he went up, like kindling. Weird too. He actually sat up, like he was trying to get away. I looked that up. Something to do with the body's gasses in the heat. I laughed, you know? Why didn't he pop if it was his gas?
    They said I didn't understand what happened that afternoon. Like being fifteen meant I was stupid. Like it was an accident. No way. When I told them they asked if I was sorry. Yeah, sure I was sorry. Sorry I hadn't seen his face. But I learnt, see. There are words they want. Regret. And loss. And sorrow. And love. Shit they want love, them socials.
    And when you master their words, you know what? They let you go. Like that. 'No longer a danger' they said. Like I've not had fifteen years to plan. First it's the stupid tree they planted on their wedding day. Then it'll be the fancy car I've seen them in. Then it'll be them, in that poncy semi they have. Friday night when they go to that club and come home pissed.
    And after? Well, their kiddie of course. He'll be at his nan's on Friday, all snug and safe. For now.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Last Friday the 13th

    500 words
    By Alicia VanNoy Call
    @callthewriter

    They never asked why I set the tree on fire. It wasn't even that big of a deal. Or it wouldn't have been if the neighbors' house hadn't caught on fire too. It's been a dry summer, so the roof went up pretty quick. All licked with flames and then when they started moving down the walls, like flames literally crawling down the walls, paint curling and all, the firemen showed up.

    They put it out pretty quick, so it really WASN'T that big of a deal. And the firemen were all pretty hot, (they didn't even put their coats on, so you could see their muscles and everything) so no one was really complaining. Even the neighbors whose side of the house got a little burnt, told the hot firemen that the whole thing was an accident. So they never asked me.

    But everyone knew. Long before the firemen rolled up their hoses and ran the siren for the little kids one more time and pulled out of the cul-de-sac, everyone knew.

    Everyone knew why I splashed the tree with cooking oil and started it up with my mom's kitchen lighter. They were all just afraid to do it themselves, which is why they covered for me when I did it.

    They all watched out their front room curtains, every single house. Watched while I cleared dead grass away from the trunk (I wasn't TRYING to catch the whole neighborhood on fire). Watched while I sprinkled holy water (I filled a dollar store spray bottle from the font at St. Mary's) in the soil. Watched while I did a bunch of prayers I got off the Internet (I covered everything: Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, Mormon, even Wicca) to bind the thing. Watched as I struck (clicked) the flame. Watched as the flames gnawed up the trunk of the tree and pretty soon sent blackened leaves flying everywhere.

    The neighbors came out on their porches to watch. Sap popping in little explosions. Twigs shooting off like rockets. The little kids were riding up and down the sidewalk, like they would with sparklers on the 4th of July.

    When the tree started to shriek, everyone ducked for a sec. Like during a driveby. Like it was going to fly out and tear our heads off. But then the trunk sorta caved in on itself, and the whole thing looked like it was melting, and it burned super white hot like I'd doused it with rocket fuel or something, and everyone was clapping and cheering and then the neighbor's roof started to smoke.

    But it all turned out okay. I'm kinda like a hero around here. People still talk about it at neighborhood potlucks and I get babysitting jobs all the time now. We haven't had any problems with garden possession since then, as far as I know. But Ol' Lady Hargrove's sunflower patch is starting to look kinda overgrown and monsterish, so I might have to get out the Canola again soon.

    ReplyDelete
  7. To Gain The Empty Throne

    496 words - challenge accepted

    @clivetern

    They never asked why I set the tree on fire. Of course, my lawyer was a dragon.
    “So, my client will not be facing further harassment, will she?”
    They shook their heads and let me go. The blood ran like ice water through my veins, chilling me as I contemplated my close escape.
    Outside the station Imajoria fixed me with golden hourglass eyes and asked, “You’re not planning to burn down anymore sacred pillars this evening, are you?”
    “No,” I lied. “And thank you for coming.”
    She huffed and, with a leathery creak, flapped into the night sky. I watched her go and as expected, a few minutes into flight, she blasted a gout of flame into the darkness. The effort of remaining calm with us lesser beings always stressed her, and she had to get rid of the excess thermic energy safely. It looked like a meteor, a foreteller of doom.
    I turned to my driver. “The vehicle is ready?” I asked.
    A tilt of the head. “Ma’am.”
    “Then let’s proceed!”
    The aelectropede strode through the night, gouts of steam forming small clouds in the air. This was the night of the iconoclast, the destroyer of images, and I would not be stopped or delayed. Like a ninja I moved from sacred tree to holy grove, from temple to alter. At each I took the Horn of Dmballa from my pocket, touched it to the venerated object, and destroyed the abomination.
    In reaching some I had to undergo transformation, forsaking my lupine form to become other. A blind human, to reach the mendicants sanctuary; a goblin shark, in search of the tentacled ghoul of space and time; a serpent entwined in its own digestive tract so as to poison the seeds of the sacred world tree.
    After each I took joy in returning to wolf. There is no shape more blessed.
    Finally my night of faithlessness drew towards a conclusion. Of my original targets only two remained, the toughest.
    First, was wyrmgard. The dragons were fierce, protective of the scales and tooth from Harfar, the Holy Paladin of Inglesford. To gain access I swam the temple outflow pipe, holding camphored grass between my teeth to staunch the foulest of smells. From there, I plunged into the crystal-mere, delighting in the thought of sullying the sacred baptismal font of the dragons. For the briefest of moments I felt a twinge of guilt, appreciative of Imajoria’s work earlier in the evening - it soon passed.
    When I touched Dmballa’s Horn to the Wyrm’s icons they dissolved, faded to dust before my eyes. I knew then my last task would be a success.
    The temple of Dmballa stood ungaurded. Its ivory tusked statues were already taking form as dawn poured the first fingers of day across the edge of the world. I strode past them, through the crenellated vaults, and up to the empty throne. I sat on it, kissed Dmballa’s Horn, and called the world to heel.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Fiona’s Tree of Life

    Fiona never asked why Jackson set the tree on fire.

    She studied the flames, remembering the day she and her mother had planted the tree. Her mother had left the oncology office with the fatal diagnosis, but instead thinking of herself she stopped and bought Fiona a peach tree. They planted it together and cried together. The tree starting the healing, even before the loss.

    When Jackson told all Fiona’s friends they weren’t allowed to visit, she had asked why. He apologized and promised to be less jealous, less domineering.

    It had been four years later that she had buried her father. She made a cobbler from the fruit the tree had produced that year, for the memorial service. The tree now represented both of them in her heart. Once again it helped her to heal. Remembering these things she went upstairs and packed two suitcases.

    When Jackson had taken scissors to her favorite dress, she had asked why. He had said it was her fault, for doing things that made him lose control of himself.

    When he moved in with her, Fiona explained to him why the tree in the backyard was her most precious memory, her favorite gift, and the dearest part of her identity. She longed for him to understand and appreciate the things that were important to her. She wondered why He never did as she loaded her handgun.

    When Jackson had her puppy put to sleep, she had asked why. He said he was teaching her not to ignore him.

    She had hoped the two of them would build a loving family. A marriage that would last a lifetime, and children who would complete a family. She was wanted to have a relationship like her parent’s marriage. She set the luggage down in the drive way, and made the firm decision.

    When Jackson first struck her, she had asked why. He said he was going to teach her to stop asking why. She would never ask again.

    Leaving the luggage, she took the handgun and went to the backyard. The fire was mostly out, live wood doesn’t burn that easily. Jackson was staring at the smoldering scar on the bark. Fiona turned the hose on him, and when he turned on her, she discharged a round into the turf at his feet. He wet himself and fell to the ground whimpering.

    When Jackson set the tree on fire, she didn’t ask why. She just came to her senses and made him leave. This was her house. He left scars on her and the tree, but they would heal together.

    434 Words
    @CharlesWShort

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. All that proof reading, and now I already see two typos.

      Delete
  9. Pacts,

    They never ask why Aideen set the tree on fire. They never ask her anything. The other villages are terrified of Aideen.

    But I’m not. Quite the opposite; Aideen has been frightened of me since I asked her parents if I could marry her. That was the first day of kindergarten. The horror on her face was evident then. Her parents had said no. Then, and every time I asked again through school.

    I swear I had nothing to do with their accident. But, it was convenient that she grew isolated.

    I am nothing if not persistent. Aideen called me a shark sensing blood when I asked her to marry me at her mother’s funeral. Marrying me could have helped replace her loss, but she declined.

    Still, I’m the only one who talks with her so she tolerates my fixation. I read once that loneliness is a more powerful torture technique than pain. It’s funny how everyone else isolates her. It’s almost like someone fans the flames of fear.

    Outsiders came to investigate the tree’s burning. The police had called them investigators, but I call them competition. Funny how their brake lines failed—twice.

    Aideen walks with me in the evening. She is an amazing woman. Her hair, white since the day I met her, follows her like a cloud. I often muse about how sleeping on it must be as close to heaven as the living can reach.

    We walk through the graveyard and end up in front of the oak that she had burned. The burnt smell taunts me. I admit respecting how she could find a way to destroy it so completely. The fire department had sprayed water on it for hours, but it couldn’t stop the incineration. The town lost it’s oldest tree, the cemetery lost it’s shade, but I lost my love that day.

    “A shame you forced me to do this,” she says.

    “You think destroying the pact makes it less binding?”

    “Yes.”

    I knew I should have protected the tree where we carved our pact: We were to marry if Aideen was still unwed by the time she turned forty. I was out finding her the right wedding dress, I knew she’d love that dress, when she destroyed the tree.

    Loneliness, I read, is a powerful motivator. I am my wits end. I voice that which should not be said. “Why did you destroy that? Why did you agree to the terms if you were going to break them?”

    She smiles; her yellow stained teeth tell more than a thousand dentist-altered mouthfuls could. “I needed to ensure that you remained single.”

    Does this mean? My heart flutters.

    She continues, “I had to make sure that you never found love either. Not after what you stole from me.”

    We stroll past the mausoleum. I always wondered if she knew what lengths I’d gone to in order to keep her mine. She knows, and had passed her sentence.

    494 Words
    @MichaelSimko1
    Special Challenge Accepted

    ReplyDelete
  10. Heresy of the Oak
    489 words
    @rowdy_phantom
    Special Challenge accepted

    They never asked Sanar why she set the Tree on fire. The sacred Tree crowning the hill in the midst of our village. The flaming leaves burned red as a blood rite into the dawn. Even if someone had dared try, they would’ve had to have gotten in there before the Arborists did. As soon as the Arborists secured the Tree, they took a still-smoldering branch and cauterized Sanar’s tongue.

    Punishment for sin, the Arborists deemed it.

    But it was self-preservation.

    For further penance, they bound her to the trunk, arms stretched as if embracing it. She weeps and moans into the bark. Some nights, when the wind was just right, I’d hear her humming the nursery rhyme she used to sing to us as babies:

    Dryad, dryad, where’s your little tree?
    If I help you find it,
    Will you grant a wish for me?

    For love, do a dance
    For health, jump up now
    For rain, give a kiss
    For wealth, take a bow

    Dryad, dryad, forever in your tree
    Now’s your turn
    To grant a wish for me.

    Mam would swat me from the window sill, the shift in her gaze made it plain her anger was fueled by fear. She’d slide the shutter closed and muffle the sound.

    Humming as the tree used her life-force to repair itself. We, the children, who learned the nursery rhymes, knew they burned away her words for protection.

    The Arborists knew that asking would’ve been like teetering at the edge of a cliff, terrifying yourself with the idea of stepping off. What kind of chasm would her heresy open up? What kind of demon hell would rise from the scorched roots?

    Most of all, they feared having to confront something ugly about themselves.

    Her act already sowed deadly doubt. The whole village had always thought her the most devout, with her daily adorations, hefting water from the spring. They swore her weekly offerings of hanaberry cakes and mead kept late frosts at bay and the dairy goats producing. If she could turn, what did that mean for the rest?

    And what was doubt in the adults, was apostasy in the children. Whenever she hummed the nursery rhymes, we’d hear the echo of the words and understand the truth tucked into whimsical nooks.

    We see her visiting a fledgling village, gracing the humble tribe with bounties. We witness her capture within an oaken shrine that she may perform on command. We see how generations of imprisonment twisted the golden fairy into a brimstone dragon. Now instead of boons on command, our people are yoked into worship to placate the rage.

    She was never a dryad, we understood, but a woman with a gift. A gift the first Arborists sought to control, and ensuing generations have perpetuated, calling such participation faith.

    We know why she lit the tree on fire. Someone had to set Great-grandmother free.

    ReplyDelete
  11. From the Chronicles of Hamm - The Story of Epic Bacon

    492 words
    Special Challenge Accepted
    @jrcheary

    They never asked why I set the tree on fire. Which is for the best I suppose? I mean, you try explaining to everyone you started a fire with your sunglasses while battling an army of salted crackers led by a giant bowl of fancy soup. You would be lucky to get laughed at, or maybe just a few begrudging moans. Worst case scenario they would lock you up because you sound crazy. But it's true. My sunglasses emit beams of intense light – a beam so intense it can catch things on fire. Don't get me wrong, they also provide excellent protection from UV radiation and still manage to look really freaking awesome.

    I wasn't always a sports-wear clad, beam-of-death wielding, defender of justice. A few weeks ago I was just another slice of teenage bacon stuck in a world of comic books and drowning in piles of homework. My life was normal until I discovered some magical orange goo my Dad had left tucked away in the garage. Everything changed after that.

    I found out that the elemancer from Epic – my favorite comic book – was actually a real-life cheese-wizard that lived hundreds of years ago and kicked major butt. Before the dude passed into the annals of obscurity he left a prophecy about the transference of his powers – a hero rising to battle some great evil, and something about some future fruit.

    I can't say I've stumbled upon any magical time-altering bananas. But I can say attest that the legend of the hero is true.

    I am the next elemancer.

    I alone can tame and harness the powers of nature.

    What could be sweeter than becoming The Master of the Seven Elements? Not much. A water wielding, two-legged blood wolf surfing on a meteor of ice while riding a dragon-shark, and armed with The Horn of the Ninja sounds pretty cool. But what are the odds of that happening?

    It all started when I obtained the Snow Cone of Cool, which lets me freeze stuff and make the absolute best snowman army ever, even in the middle of summer! There's nothing like the feeling of summoning a blizzard to stop the world from being flooded by an all-consuming mass of soil-purging soap bubbles.

    And now I have these glasses...

    Don't get me wrong I had to pay for them. When I say pay I don't mean with money. I had to do a bunch of seemingly meaningless tasks for this really creepy comic shop owner but-

    The bedroom door opened with only a slight creaking sound.

    "Hamm, are you writing in your journal again?"

    "Ye-ah, mom."

    "Oh that's wonderful honey," she said smiling down at him. "Are those sunglasses new?" she pointed at the bookshelf behind him.

    "Those? Yeah. I...uh...I found them earlier today."

    "Oh well they look very nice dear. I'll leave you to it then."

    "Thanks mom." Hamm hated lying to his mother but he knew she wouldn't understand.

    ReplyDelete