Monday, March 31, 2014

Last Day to First Day!

Dear Readers, Followers, cart managers, and hamster barristers.
As you've read, we included ourselves in last years Camp NaNoWriMo, the summer version for the November trial to write.
But this year, the Camp has become so popular that it has expanded out of the warm spells to the month of April, and we've all three decided to do ti again this year!
As this is the day ramping up to the midnight strike starting, we thought we'd give one more before-April post before we unsheathe our pens, bare our computers, and do battle with the terrible Sore Thumbs, the juggernaut Writer's Block, and the well named, inescapable force, Deadline.
As something for you to think about, here is the schedule for what new, old and middle aged things we will put forward probably in April, and certainly in May.
The Weekly Draconian: An innovation to the Draconian World, giving interviews with well-known Draconian persons, closeup stories on the latest scandals, adverts, and distinct intelligence into
The Draconian Letters: Messrs. Trubodox, Semithino and Scaligar will be back in fully fledged glory as they come together to rescue a misunderstood damsel, fight like ferrets in a bag for the sunday paper, and continue to barrage Smok with advice, intel, harrowing tales and outright crossbow threats.
The Riddle Ogre: Sometime or other our procrastinations will fall short and we'll finish the story.
Exclusive Fantasy Interviews: The blog will host several more unusual characters, sporting strange tails, stranger tales, and sometimes even interesting perspectives.
Riddling Derbies: Yet again we shall come, we shall see, and we shall solve some more of the various riddles and poetical puzzles we stake to the board.
Short Stories: As ever, we'll shoe horn in a few novellas, maybe some poetry, and with only a few lumps in them.
Thats all for now, and quite enough for anytime.
As Caesar would say, Jacta Alaea Esto.
Let the games begin.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Book Two Letter Forty-Four

My dear Smok,
It has come to my attention that your planned date with Limmie the Mildly Cute the other night did not go as expected. I should know; I was there the whole time, masterfully attempting to manipulate events from behind the scenes (in your favor, of course).
It started easily. You scheduled your date with Limmie the Mildly Cute, to be set at your cavern, with some catering and then a night out with the stars. But, somewhere along the way (perhaps when you entrusted Semithino with the details of writing up your invitation in calligraphy), as I have deduced after the fact, the wrong address was given to Limmie.
I blame Semithino.
That old tart has been secretly framing such bewildering incidents since he was in diapers. I remember when the two sides of the family first came together, and he chewed half my ear off while I was helplessly roasting in a gigantic vat of stew! I've mentioned this before, quite a long time ago, so I won't go into too many details.
So, here is my account of the other night.
I flew to your cavern. Of course I wasn't going to leave you unassisted if trouble arose with your date, so I was stalking watching over your new home, awaiting any wind of ill omen.
Of course, when Limmie did not show up, that set off the first checkered flag in my mind. I waited about twenty minutes. Maybe she'd been detoured off the Skyway and had to take a different route due to unexpected traffic problems?
Her absence struck the thirty minute mark, so I began to suspect foul play. That was just when Semithino came barreling down from the dark night sky, nearly bowling straight over me in a heap of frantic madness.
"Scaligar!" he hissed. "I need your assistance. Limmie went to the wrong house!"
I suspect that he had framed this whole incident on purpose for some good fun, but it was very good acting if he had. I agreed to help him, keeping my suspicions that he was in on it to myself.
We flew as if we were being pursued by hornets to save the date. As soon as we reached a good altitude of flight, however, a gigantic draconian figure tumbled out of the night's clouded canopy, headed right toward us!
I could have sworn it was some dark wraith of the night, intent on killing us, dicing us into tiny pieces, and selling our internal organs on the black market. The figure careened toward us with wings unfurled, coming straight for us, but we also held our course, determined not to back down in the face of this huge dragon.
The moon came out of the clouds just before we collided. It was Trubodox! We slammed straight into each other and crashed to earth, flattening a small red barn.
Trubodox explained the frightening horrors he had seen at Smok's old abode: the house overrun by Yovians, Limmie kidnapped by those barbarous lunatics.
We had to save her.
I'll let Semithino tell you the stagnant tale of our misfortunes from there on out as we all ventured through the skies to converge upon your old abode and rescue Limmie the Mildly Cute from the clutches of those evil Yovians. Then you can tell me if he was really in on it.
I swear, it was almost like Semithino set up the whole thing.
-Your serpentine uncle,


So, what do you think is going to happen in the next installment of The Draconian Letters?
Is Semithino really plotting against his relatives?
Comment below with your opinions, notes, and suggestions. Thank you for reading Iron Wyvern!

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Book Two Letter Forty-Three

Dear Smok,

You’ve dragged me back against my will, I see that, but my noble nature could not be contained in light of what happened when I was crying on your lawn happened by your old cave on a midnight glide.

Anyway, while I was so forthing, I spotted a fair Draconian maiden making her way to the cave’s entrance. Wiping my eyes on some ferns Intending to warn her no one was home, I landed close behind her as silently as a greased pig for no apparent reason, and almost spoke to her when suddenly a ferocious Yovian Drake wearing pantaloons leapt from the cave mouth and grabbed the maiden, carrying her back into the cave.

        I of course was horrified, and; attempting to enter the cave was strongly rebuffed by a pair of muscle strapped Drakes, yelling single syllable war cries that seemed to be a custom.

        After being thrashed like a rug making a tactical retreat, I located a window (skylight, whatever) in the side of the cave, and attempted to force my way in. After I nearly broke my neck, I decided instead to spy, intent on collecting information on how to rescue the fair damsel trapped inside.

        Yo-Yo games?! What I saw inside the cave was almost to scarring to recount. The maid was standing in the midst of a cavorting mass of monosyllabic Drakes yelling in Morse code, binary code, and dancing the Macarena to a funeral march being played by a Drake with a musical saw.

        The Yo-Yos came in when the Drakes got bored with their blasphemy against popular dancing, and lined up for the Yovi native game of ‘Yo-Yo Yonkers’. Their own mix of dodge ball, Ti Chi, and professional wrestling.

        Whilst this went on, the maiden--you’ll never believe this Smok but I believe it was Limmie the Mildly Cute!--stood on the sidelines weeping her snout off. It may have looked to the untrained eye that she was laughing, but my eyes are hardened by years of being smart and stuff.

        This is getting serious, Smok, why didn’t you tell her you’d moved?! Or maybe you did so you could get your implacable uncle back in the game.

        Well, you’ve succeeded; my irrepressible bravery cannot be withheld whilst a fare damsel is in danger.

        TO HORSE!!!

        I shall be in contact,

Your massively courageous uncle,


        Trubodox the Scarlet


P.S. Never try to find a horse big enough for a Dragon to ride, it ends badly.

P.P.S. I shall now plan my rescue of Limmie.

P.P.P.S. Does Drakemart sell Dynamite?
Here's something we might start up sooner then later...A weekly newspaper that goes on in the Draconian world....called the Weekly Draconian, which will tie in to the present events happening around the three scaled uncles! Comment and tell us what you think.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

What We Do in Our Spare Time - Part 2

We decided to take both suggestions given us in the last installment of "What We Do in Our Spare Time," and make stories out of them. We hope for more suggestions this time. Enjoy!

1. Photo album
2. The complete works of Shakespeare
3. Mt. Vesuvius

Running through a library was not all it was cracked up to be, Emily realized, skidding around a shelf and sprinting down a tunnel of enclosing shelves. Confusing, straining, and with no point she could think of, except to confuse her pursuers.
                A few shelves over, the heavily accented swearwords gave her the exact location of her closest assailant. He would soon reach her shelf row, and then he’d be on her. Burning to a halt right at the next crossroads between shelves, Emily grabbed a heavy history book from the closest wall of books, flipped to a page on Mt. Vesuvius, and ripped it out.
                Tossing the book aside, Emily crouched down at the edge of the row, listening as the heavy footsteps thundered around the second shelf over. Flattening the vandalized piece of paper to the carpet, Emily jerked it out into the hallway just as the massive foot of the running man planted itself firmly onto it.
                With a yell, the man careened forward in a crash landing, slamming to the floor. Along the next row, Emily heard the second man shout, and start sprinting to his comrade. Stepping slightly back, Emily waited a second then threw herself against the intervening slab of books, sending what looked like the complete works of Shakespeare thundering into the next row, neatly hitting the running man straight in the head.
                Both men now neutralized, Emily jogged to the front of the library, passing the desk at a run before the librarians could stop her and slamming through the front doors out into the Twilit streets, slowing to a wary walk at the end of the street, sure that she would never visit that library again. What would they do, she wondered, if she had returned that photo album three days overdue?

1. A ring with a blue gem
2. A log that won't burn
3. A ship

The king was dead. The funeral was held on a Thursday.
The king’s wife wept.
The king’s son stared, stone-faced, at the king’s coffin.
The king’s men saluted.
The king’s dogs howled.
They took the king’s coffin, hoisting it onto the shoulders of six men. They marched down to the seashore. They laid the king’s coffin in the prow of the boat. They laid the king’s sword in the king’s cold hands. They piled all the king’s treasures around him, including a blue diamond ring he had won from a dragon.
They stacked logs on the king’s pyre. They brought oil and poured it over the king’s ship.
The king’s priest anointed him. The king’s family wept over him. The king’s son lit his father’s pyre. The king’s men gently pushed the ship out to sea.
The king’s warship did not burn. The fire could not burn the logs. Instead, it quietly floated out to sea, and the darkness of night overtook it. The king’s ship disappeared, and was never seen again.


Hoped you enjoyed it! Our first installment of this segment on the blog is posted just below, if you want to read the other stories.

Comment below with your 3-item story prompts! See you soon on Iron Wyvern!

Sunday, March 23, 2014

What We Do In Our Spare Time

As the title says, this post is going to show some of the writing we do in time we have to kill, maim, or otherwise!
Something we have been doing for a short time is write short stories that can only be five paragraphs long or less. As you may imagine, this makes the stories rather cramped, and in our case, often nonsensical. But also in these unusual writing prompts, we have to write the story about--or in the least involving--three things that someone else dictates to the writer.
Obviously this explodes the story into new and uncharted fields of fabulous foolishness, and is the best thing for anyone who loves to write!
Well, we've decided to post several of our latest attempts at humor story prompts. And the fun doesn't end here! As the Math teacher once said: After you've read the short stories, comment with a list of three things of your own, and we'll use the one we like most for another of our…dun-dun…TRIPLE THING STORY PROMPTS!!! (Hope that sounded more impressive to you then me, anyway, on with the post.)


1. A banana peel

2. Three bowls of soup

3. A French terrier

The restaurant was fancy, no doubt about that, what other type would have gold leaf wallpaper? But something told Jams he couldn’t trust the waiter. If you asked why, the simplest answer would be that he had fur. But, so did Jams.
            He scowled fitfully, crumpling his napkin and tossing it aside. It bopped another passing waiter on the crown and he sprawled to the immaculate carpet, soiling it with the three bowls of soup he carried, and several extracurricular swearwords. Ignoring the commotion, Jams looked at the furred waiter making his way towards his table, a smarmy smile on his thin muzzle.
            He was a French terrier, Jams speculated, probably from good stock, but nothing about breeding could commandeer his dislike of the furry dandy. He, a retriever, of course was slightly prejudice, but still...
            “Bonjour again, mon ami misour!” Said the terrier in a French accent so fake it was probably real. “I was anxious to get back to yoo,” he continued. He got no further, with a cry, he slipped on the banana peel, someone must have placed on the carpet a meter from the table.
Jams grinned, as well as a dog could, and stood up, loping past the flailing garcon and out the door. What a strange world, he thought. A banana peel, who would have thought it?

1. The zombie Apocalypse

2. Speedy Gonzales

3. A blue car

The zombie apocalypse had come. It was happening right here, right now. Dan Mitchells was one of the first to know.
            He was sitting in his baby blue muscle car, listening to the radio. The commentator was spouting nonsense about cotton candy eating contests and how global warming had severely affected the production of cartoons. Dan didn’t honestly care; he was watching, waiting for his friend Ryan.
            “Ugh, what are you doing, Ryan?” Dan grumbled, shifting in his seat. The sun was baking the inside of the car through the dark tinted windows. He would have to turn the car back on for some air conditioning soon if Ryan didn’t hurry up and get out of the house. Dan heard sirens switch on in the distance, getting louder and closer until a police car sped by his vehicle like Speedy Gonzales. What was happening?
            A random person walked out into the street, shuffling like a cripple. The police car didn’t even hesitate, just ran them right over. What in the world? Dan almost screamed in horror. He turned on the car and drove forward to investigate.
            The body was Ryan! Dan screamed in terror as his friend got back up again and crawled onto the hood of the car, slamming against the windshield. Ryan was a zombie! Dan got out his phone, took a quick picture, texted it to his 83 closest friends, and put the car into reverse, shaking off his former friend in the process. Time to get out of town.

1. A ship in a bottle

2. A mango smoothie

3. A balcony

As bottles went, ones with ships shoe horned inside them didn’t break as well against a head as a good old fashioned Jack Daniels.
            But Petro wasn’t complaining. He was cursing sure, as he and the brawler grappled their way onto the balcony, his opponent slightly dazed from the bottles impact, and with a tiara of glass shards spiking up from his hair.
Stepping back slightly into the balcony’s lavish apartment room, Petros exploded back at his still swaying opponent and shoved him over the balcony railing, falling a short distance and then impacting with a tremendous splash into the small hotel-side pool.
Dusting his hands, Petro walked back into his apartment, choosing a chilled mango smoothie from the refrigerator. That would teach the man to advertize at his door.

1. A diamond sword

2. A robot

3. Saint Patrick’s Day

The crowds cheered, waving their hands in the air and screaming out like madmen. They were a sea of green, all dressed in St. Patrick’s Day tees and staring down at the small arena in the middle of the stadium, where the two combatants prepared for battle. Stevie “St. Patrick” McKnuckles swished his diamond sword through the air as the boys pulled the wreckage of the last battle down the garbage chute. That was four wins in a row from Stevie and his hard diamond weapon.
            After what seemed like an eternity of noise, the referee announced it was go time. “Ready?” the announcer roared over the speakers. Stevie raised his sword high in the air and shook it, letting loose a glorious battle cry.
            At the other side of the arena, the floor opened up and a humanoid robotic foe rose up: his challenger. Stevie grinned and slashed his sword through the air. As soon as he heard the ref’s whistle blow, he charged the artificially intelligent combatant with full vigor. He sliced his sword through sputtering sockets, cleaving off the robot’s left arm in a single blow. The bot, however, did not take kindly to such wreckage, and flung itself bodily at its competitor. Stevie ducked and rolled out of the way, jumping onto the technological creation’s backside. He hacked off the bot’s head in a clean stroke and raised his sword high, plunging it deep into the circuitry of its main body.
            The crowd went wild as Stevie pulled out his blade and kicked the trashed hunk of metal across the arena floor in a gesture of ultimate triumph. St. Patrick victorious!
            Stevie abruptly woke from his fantastic dream. It was 6:30 in the morning. He rolled over and slapped the snooze button on his alarm clock.

1. A train

2. Babies

3. A disgruntled office worker

‘You must rescue the babies’ they said. Well alright, I do rescue ops, but did they say anything about the train? Oh no, speeding locomotives packed with armed gorillas wearing clothes was much too trivial to mention.
            “One less to worry about”, grunted Tom Barker, flinging open the train door and tripping the wailing thug through it in a blur of motion. Grabbing the man’s gun, Tom stepped to the next door. Locked.
            “When will they learn,” Tom said, unable to resist as he peppered the wooden entrance with a burst of bullets. Giving the doorway a solid kick, Tom stepped through into a padded room, full of cribs where sleeping babies gurgled and snored in their adolescent dreams.
            Turning slightly to assess the rest of the room, Tom felt a massive weight wing his left side, sending him spinning to the train car’s softened floor. Rolling to the side and up, Tom barker was back on his feet, gun raised, side aching, mouth cursing.
            In the doorway stood a short fat man. Tom recognized him. He was the office worker for the orphanage principal who had hired Tom, a very disgruntled office worker. Evidently he had tried to flip the broken door onto Tom’s back. “Didn’t work”, chided Tom, watching as the office employee strode angrily over the wrecked door. “Now wait a minute, we can come to an agreement,” said Tom, shooting the office jughead five times. There we are, Tom finished in his head. Job well done.

1. A fat dwarf

2. A gold ring

3. A Mount Olympus toilet

Clyde was feeling generous today as he sat behind the counter at the lobby, checking insurance claims and other such paperwork. He’d had a good day so far. His girlfriend, Bonnie Sweetkins, had just proposed to him yesterday.
            Now, as he worked in the Mount Olympus lobby, his pudgy fingers flying over the keyboard as he sent an abrasive email to a bad customer, he felt the utmost glee. Because on one of said pudgy fingers was the dwarf’s very own gold engagement ring. Oh, mom and dad are going to be so excited when they find out! Clyde thought. Ah, wedded bliss with Bonnie Sweetkins!
            Clyde felt the urge creep up on him slowly as he sat working quickly and efficiently. He needed to go to the bathroom. Clyde pushed back in his wide chair and stood up. His wide girth toddled to the restroom, where Zeus’ latest selfie hung on the wall. The great snowy beard stared down upon him as he did what he came to do.
            As Clyde turned to wash his hands, however, the ring, almost as if it had a mind of its own, slipped off his finger and tumbled down into the toilet water.
            Auto-flush kicked in almost immediately.

1. A strange fish

2. An engraved skull

3. Three bottles of apple juice

He was a strange fish, Throckmorton knew, but the shopkeeper certainly knew how to draw customers.
            The dingy shop cases presented strange objects from seemingly everywhere. An engraved skull from Africa for instance, and a miniature totem pole from ancient America. But Throckmorton was looking for something special. Magic objects usually were. Two stepping around a fat case of Parisian baubles, he made his way up to the counter. The squinty proprietor squinted harder. “Can I ‘elp you” he grunted, his morning breath nearly flattening Throckmorton.
            “Yes,” Throckmorton coughed, the smell of coffee de sardine still wafting around him. “I am looking for three bottles of apple juice.” The shopkeeper closed his mouth sharply at the code word. Then he nodded and motioned Throckmorton after him, into the back of the shop.
            Stepping through the dusty curtain, Throckmorton watched the shriveled shopkeeper rummage in a cupboard, elbows cracking like medieval cannons as he reached farther in, grabbed something, and turned to Throckmorton, holding three grimy bottles of ginger liquid, stamped with a tiny brand tag each.
            “Apple juice?” Throckmorton snorted in indignation. “I was supposed to get a Jinni’s bottle!” The shopkeeper nodded creakily, proffering the bottled beverages. “They are, Mr. client, but you have to drink them first.”


Tell us which ones you liked most! And remember to show your three things for us!

*NOTE* We accept that several of these short stories are not politically correct. But as none of us plan to become lawyers, senators, or dump truck drivers, we feel quite safe.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Book Two Letter (a.k.a. Telegram) Forty-Two

dear neph STOP

can't say much must fly STOP have received word that limmey arrived at wrong address STOP must hurry save your personal life STOP sigh STOP will send word later STOP


Sent from the Drake telegraph station of Bootjaw