Disenchantment

The mist glistened with false promises. The canopy dripped the tears of myriad misled bards of all races who had put effort into the creation of tales only to be demeaned by the praising of the Mediocre tribe by the forest’s Editelves.

The tribe, though mere mortals, had somehow produced a damsel of beauty which had entranced even the sorcerers and had been avidly welcomed into the hierarchy as a mate where she wielded unprecedented influence.

The trolls, in particular, grumbled angrily as the incantation of rejection echoed through the avenues, causing even lianas to cringe. “We have decided not…”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Bottom Of The Well

Carl had not wanted the bottom of the well. The high-traffic areas--the bridges, the forests--had all been selected when it was finally his turn to choose. His parents complained he should have taken his classes more seriously, but regrets were of no use. His only hope was hard work would result in a promotion.

Unfortunately, in 150 years, Carl had never once encountered another living soul at the bottom of his well. He was understandably both angry and hungry.

Calvin had no way of knowing any of this when he fell down the well behind the old farmhouse.