Saturday, April 26, 2014

Symeon Simian: Unfortunately not a Monkey's Uncle

Yup, yet again TDL has been postponed due to flagrant procrastination from we three authors of the blog. 
We realize the only reason mass uprising has only been prohibited by our hungry Wyvern which we prefer to call Please No, as that's usually the only thing its hears while defending our domicile.
Anyway, due to our so-forthing, we will be posting letters next week, along with a complimentary page of the Weekly Draconian, but for now, we put forward a recently cobbled together painstakingly created short story for the enjoyment of all ye who hearken to the Wyvern's Den.

Symeon the monkey swung in a gentle arc through the moist morning air, his hairy toes firmly lodged around the springy branch he was using as a swinging pendulum.
            At the apex of his swing, he realized his feet from the pliant branch and shot upwards, neatly catching the highest branch on the tree and wrapping his agile legs firmly around it.
            Bouncing slightly upside down with the branches recoil, Symeon blinked around his enclosure. What to do; what to do…
             The dartboard tacked to the far wall was already perforated with dart points past and present, and he had gone too long with it anyway. The swing-set was entirely too grounded, he much preferred his current vantage.
            Gazing from the computer, across the picture wall, platted with animal, human and strange unreal photos he guessed were fantasy from his handlers’ minds. Past the obstacle course and finally, ah, that was what he wanted.
            The 72 in. plasma TV perched invitingly beside a less enticing rock garden, complete with snaking wires and curving white objects he had yet to explore.
            Springing down to the packed earth and stone of the enclosure floor, Symeon loped over to the TV, snatching up a white object and fingering the TV’s sides until it lit up.
            Crouching back on his hairy haunches, Symeon squinted at the screen. Figures and bright objects began to bounce around the edges of the bright screen.
            Unsure, he prodded at his white object. A character on the screen sprung upwards unexpectedly. So the white object made it move.
            Over several minutes, Symeon mastered the controller, figuring out how to attack the other flamboyant characters on screen, how to move and evade, and finally, how to win.
            Hooting like his less civilized relatives, Symeon flung his controller at the screen in victory. He had mastered yet another thing. Leaping up, Symeon swiveled, looking for something new to conquer, there was so much to do in his room.
            Outside the long observing window, Doctor Povral sketched out a few words on his clipboard. The subject was coming along nicely. From where he had been looking at the opposite windows monkey, Doctor Manning joined Povral, swinging his completed clipboard beside him.
            “Anything new with the primary?” he inquired, squinting through the window. Povral need not answer, but did anyway. “Oh yes, Subject Symeon is coming along unexpectedly well.”
            Manning nodded, slightly awed by the room behind the window. “Good lord, there’s something you don’t see everyday.” Inside, monkey Symeon had found a hatstand and had begun to dance with it.
            “Make sure not to give it too much to do, it might rub off,” he said to Povral, watching the monkey with a nervous eye. The Doctor shook his head, laughing. “Come on doctor, honestly. What could a simian possibly ever do to us?”

Tell us what you think in the little box for words below, and while your at it, watch out for spelunking Giraffes.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Easter Prep: A Holiday Short Story

This is a short story genre we've never tried, and probably never will again, so read closely. 
They've gone into what happens on Christmas Eve, bionic reindeer and enslaved elves. They've written on Halloween and alien abduction for candy, death fights over Mars bars, and so on.
But have you ever read a story on what goes on Easter's Eve? This is definitely it.
Enjoy, and watch out for Wyverns.

“Big Yo, this is Good Egg, all units present and in position.”
         “Roger that, Good Egg. And I told you, its Big Yoke.
“Affirmative Big Yoke, all units ready.”
         “Move ‘em in.”
         From behind the rhodedendron bush, Big Yoke watched as his eggheads appeared from behind other bushes around the park, their black ninja masks encircled by the trademark colored stripes.
         Switching off his wockey-tockey, Big Yoke reached up and scratched his furry ear furiously, taking stock of the situation as his unit closed in on the prime zone.
         Good Egg bounced slightly ahead, moving faster than his comrades, but measuring his leaps so not to get completely out of formation. He was a new agent, but was one of the best BY had seen yet.
         The hopping system had been a branded part of the operations since the seasonal big bang, BY asserted; supposedly even members of their genus relations had copied their breakthrough in movement.
         Rubbing his drooping lug contemplatively, BY sat back. He wondered if Whitebeard’s elves also had a system. They were certainly more recognized.
         But publicity was definitely not high in his operation, the only thing the people really knew about it was the stealth itself.
         Contented that his celeb was suffisciently greater than the fat man’s, BY went back to watching his squad.
         The circle had stopped now, having reached the zone, and began taking out equipment. Long cylindrical magazines appeared from their body suits and slotted into each’s specialized rifle.
         Some fumbled with their gear, nervous at the job. It wasn’t every year that the Big Yoke oversaw an operation.
         Two thirds of the squad split from the idling main circle and set about with their parts, blending almost seamlessly with the dark grass and shady bushes, save for the jouncing beams of their ears weaving through the darkness.
         Buckteeth flashing in a grin; BY unclipped his binoculars and set to watching the operation. These eggheads were the primary section of the mission, while the rest would be making the more specialized work.
         Winding the binocular lenses to the distance, BY watched as the operatives began shelling the park. Hard Boiler, the head of the down, knelt beside a park bench and shot a brightly colored egg into the cropped grass.
         Priming his gun once again, Hard Boiler punched another colorful oval into the space under a bush. Around the park, similar eggs were shooting into their spots from egghead rifles.
         After finishing shelling the park, the primary rabbit squad melted back into the main circle, allowing the special force to spread out.
         These mammals all carried satchels instead of rifles, with a red egg symbol emblazoned on their shoulders, denoting them as specialist agents.
         BY watched as, one by one, they set to work. These were the profesional shellers, prancing across the dark grass, they scaled lampposts, flicking eggs into their chambers, then sliding down and ninja walking through the bushes, twisting them into roots, perchign them in bush crowns, and on, until their satchels were empty.
         Raising his paw, BY checked his watch. They were almost out of time. Half an hour was the absolute max for a park shelling operation.        Flicking on his wockey-tockey, Big Yoke barked through to his agents.
         “Hard Boiler, Good Egg, pull your squads out, we need to move!”
         “Roger that, BY,”
         Affirmative, Big Yo.”
         Strangling Good Egg was not a good idea, BY knew. He decided instead to put him on warren clean up once they were back. Right now, they had too much to do.
         Following the dissipating eggheads, BY turned slightly to see the church steeple peeking from behind the trees.
         Enjoy yourself kids, He thought. Then turned and bounced after his squad, they still had several thousand parks to equip for the holidays.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

The Weekly Draconian

It was always fun to write a fantasy paper on the Wyvern, a Weekend Disaster Post here, then a Weekly Post there. But none of them have ever tied into the Draconian Letters in the merest of fashion senses.
What is best about The Weekly Draconian, is that it knits in seamlessly (was that a knitting metaphor?) with the letters! 
Here today, we get our first look at the first of many Weekly Draconian posts. In this one below the scene is set after what the uncles have done at and to the once-home of Smok, and later the base of the invading Drakes.
The next letters will feature the retrospective writings of our three protagonist Dragons, each entailing his part in the story, and uncovering the mysteries in this post....
Ladies and Gentlemen, Invertebrates and Mammals, let me welcome you to the very first post in THE WEEKLY DRACONIAN!!!!!!!!!

Columnist: Brett Sorethumb
Investigative Journalist: Sardina the Inquisitive

Mystery Explosions on inland Province: At dawn the morning after the day which this is centered on the day after, a budding disturbance woke several provincial inhabitants surrounding the coastal province of (name unsure).
            The kafuffle first began with a few distant shouts, the ominous sound of a twanging harp, and then an explosion that rocked the ground and the shockwave that followed knocked several Skyway flyers out of the airspace.
            News companies came on scene several minutes after the community notified them of the disturbance, head-journalist Sardina investigated, accompanied by squire-journalist Pinbee the Vertically Challenged.
            Upon arrival at the untouched scene of the explosion, which had been the recently vacated home of Smok the Unsure (several Dragons have listed complaints at this name, including one Truebotox).
            The cave mouth and interior had been wrecked to within an inch of its life, while the noise of the twanging harp was quickly solved by Pinbee, who broke his lower left claw toe falling over it.
            Amongst the wreckage, several stunned Drakes were found, along with several implements besides the harp, including a splintered Draconian crossbow, a dress slathered with war paint, and, most unusual of all, a Bung mallet accessorized with an elemental pearl.
            These artifacts have been taken in for questioning, along with the Drakes, save for the Bung mallet, which mysteriously disappeared; the police base’s wall being ripped off and an unknown Dragon carrying it off notwithstanding.
            The all pervading question is why? Why was the cave blown up, why were such strange objects found amid the dregs and dross? And who? Who could and would do such a phenomenal and unusual thing?
            Journalists still investigating, this case will be one of the most riveting ever published, no one will know how it ends; definitely not.
      Brett Sorethumb,
Executive Reporter and Columnist

Monday, April 7, 2014

And Another Thing

As we probably haven't informed you, one of J.T.Z. Baner--me, in short--has centered his Camp NaNoWriMo project on novellas, just a fancy word for jumped up short stories, the highest form of shortened novel writing.
Over the first ensuing days of Camp, I've realized what energizes your brain really well is just a dive into the imagination, a random flirt with the letter keys per se.
In short, a three thing story prompt. I've done three of them so far in the first few days of camp, and they've helped immensely, the fact that I am still behind nine hundred words is irrelevant.
Here are some of the more enjoyable ones I've done so far, if you want to read more, just comment below with three (preferably imaginative) story components.

1. A record player
2. A first edition Gulliver’s Travels
3. A diadem

The shop closed soon after daylight had discontinued its glare against the dusty windows. Shooing a few stray children clutching (all four of them) what they thought was a first edition of Gulliver’s Travels. And they thought right, Erik thought, bolting the door and flipping the open sign to its opposite. He was no swindler, a bookstore was a bookstore, and he liked to think his was the best in London.
            Just as he was closing the blind, and alreadyt hinking about his squashy armchair and the ancient record player sitting invitingly out of sight upstairs, Erik caught sight of three dark figures scuttling from an alleyway like bipedal beetles, up the steps of the museum and seemingly straight through its dark windows.
            Immediately discarding his thoughts of sleep, Erik unlocked the front door and toed silently out and up to the museum’s window where the figures had dissapeared. He immediately realized that they had cleanly cut out a wide circle of glass from the tall windowpane. All thoughts that the figures were not burglars were flushed from Erik’s mind. Looking around to see if any bobbies were coming by, Erik saw none. With a disgruntled swearword, Erik clambered through the window hole and into the dark interior.
            Far ahead through the blackness he caught sight of a jumping beam of bright light, the burglars had broguth flashlights. Creeping forwards, Erik passed the dark bulk of the information desk and through a corridor into what he thought might be the jewels wing.
            Ahead, the beams of light dissapeared as the figures went down a stairwell. Erik found a spiral stair and quickly clambered up it to a higher wing. Just below him, through the open middle of the wing, he saw three flashlight beams flick on and congregate around a small case. Bright white light glittered off of something jeweled. The museum’s diadem, Erik realized.
            Driven by a sudden impulse he turned, grabbed the nearest thing to hand, several glass orbs filled with cerimonial statuettes and hastened to the edge of the opened floor. Flinging down the orbs one by one, he struck down the figures in glittering explosions of ruptured glass.
            Outside the window, Erik shook his head; that would never happen. Flipping open his mobile, he clicked out 9-9-9, the police could handle the burglars.

1.  An ice berg

2. A fat duck

3.  And a spanish colonel

The punch stung Jake’s mouth like liquid bee sting. Glancing around surreptitious, he dumped the rank liquid into a nearby flowering bush. The bush swore fluently and peeled off a sopping daisy mask. That was the trouble with Halloween parties, surreptitious wasn’t in their dictionary.
            Unusually certainly was, Jake mused, two stepping past a human ice berg with a toy Titanic glued to it to avoid the profane flowerpot that still pursued him. Losing the figure in a massive wave of costumed humanity, Jake clipped some champagne from a passing Einstein Bobblehead’s tray.
            He had always liked costume parties, whether in Halloween or out. It gave people a chance to exercise their imagination, drink free beverages, and let loose in your shielded alias.
            Emptying the champagne into his mouth and tossing it aside, Jake made his way towards the room’s crowded doorway, snagging his springy feathers on a Spanish colonel’s dress uniform.
            His fat duck costume wobbled comically as he pried himself through the noisy doorway out into the far less noisy street, that was enough revelry for the night. Now to go home and egg those kids who TP’d his house last year….

If you enjoyed them, comment below. If not, go and contract a beehive.