Short Story: Ploughing A Furrow

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The band was plinking out something approximating a traditional folk reel while the customers bent over their drinks and tried to ignore them. It was a fairly typical evening, truth be told. The bartender was holding court in his deeply impenetrable accent with a small entourage of regulars. The pub dog had annexed the best sofa, and was busy snoozing and farting in front of the open fire.

Revelsond knocked his pint back and wiped the froth from his mustache with the back of his gauntlet. Then he belched for good measure and laughed. He looked round, as if hoping to catch someone disapproving. Beside him, Arno tutted under his breath, and sipped the last of his wine.

The table before them was just as much an indicator of the differences between them. Revelsond’s platter was covered in the debris of disarticulated bones, while Arno seemed to have barely picked…

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Short Story: Silence!

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i really like this short story so thought I would re-blog it


The first birdsong of the morning lasted maybe three seconds. Then some bugger cast a hex that turned the poor blackbird into something vaguely resembling a week old jelly. It landed with a wet splat on our windowsill.

The sudden silence was broken by one of the guards beside me chuckling and nudging me in the ribs. He pointed to Private Westerhouse, who seemed to be suddenly struggling to keep his breakfast down. I reflected that we were perhaps awful, jaded people to not be suffering the same reactions.

“Where do you think they are?” Robson, my rib-nudger-in-chief said. He was affecting a casual glance out the window, but I could see him paying close attention to a number of likely hiding places. He was a veteran of the Great Re-Indexing, and was under no illusions about the danger we were in.

Outside, the dawn had yet to break, and…

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