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 Storage of stories written for The Bradbury, 2025. |
| Various stories created at the (hopeful) rate of one a week for the year 2025, |
| Sir Geraint There was once a knight who, in the course of his latest quest, found himself benighted in the Forest of Lucomia. A storm was threatening and the knight lost his horse when it panicked and ran from his camp, frightened by a flash of lightning. Undeterred, the knight continued on foot but, as the forest grew more tangled and the storm more tempestuous, he lost his way and wandered into the darkest depths of the forest. All hope seemed lost as he stumbled upon his way but then, at last, he glimpsed far off a light flickering among the trees. He made his way toward it and found that it was a lone house, small amd unimposing, but perhaps sufficient to shelter him for the night. He knocked at the door. At first there was no answer but the knight persisted and knocked again. Eventually, there came the sounds of locks being undone within and the door opened. An old woodsman peered out at the man standing on his doorstep. “And who be you?” he asked. “I am Sir Geraint,” said the knight. “I have lost my horse and my way due to the storm and the darkness of the night and I wonder, my good fellow, if you might be able to put me up until the morrow.” The old man rubbed his hands together, clearly not enjoying the cold blast of the storm while standing at his open door. “Oh that be impossible, sire, for I live alone and there be no room for anything but myself in this humble abode.” “Oh, come, come now, fellow. Surely there is a couch or carpet on which I can lie and so be ready to journey on in the morning?” “Not a thing, my lord,” answered the old man. “It’s really just a tiny house and I have no comforts of any sort.” Well, this went on for some time, the knight begging and pleading for shelter and the old man denying his ability to serve the knight at all. Eventually, the knight gave up and switched his tack. “Well, what about a horse?” he demanded. “Surely you have a horse or something I could ride to get to the next town?” “Oh no, sire,” returned the man. “I be a humble woodsman and no horse have I.” This set the knight to thinking. “A donkey then. Surely you have a donkey.” “Nope,” came the reply. “There must be something,” protested the knight. "Have you nothing at all that I can ride?” “Not me,” said the old man. “Not even a dog? A big one, maybe?” The old man hesitated. “Well…” “Yes, yes, what is it?” The knight snatched at this faint ray of hope. “Well, there is… But no, I couldn’t do that.” The old man turned away as though the conversation was ended. But the knight was not going to let go now until he knew what had occurred to the man. “Ah but there is something, isn’t there? What is it, man? Out with it, no matter how awful.” The old man wavered. “It’s true, I do have a dog,” he began. “A big one?” suggested the knight. “Oh yes, sire. A huge one indeed.” Now the knight leapt at his chance. “Well, that’s it then. I’ll ride the dog to the next town!” “Oh no, sire. You couldn’t do that. Not on this dog. He’s terrible and all. I’m sorry I even thought of it.” “Nonsense, man. I’m a knight and I’ll ride the thing if it’s big enough. Why, I’ve killed dragons and griffons, I’m not afraid of a mere dog.” The old man shook his head. “No, no, sire, I couldn’t do that. You don’t know what you’re asking.” “Don’t be silly, man,” said the knight. “Just lead me to it and I’ll ride the beast.” Again the old man shook his head and began to close the door. “No, my lord, I can’t do it. There’s just no way I would send a knight out on a dog like this…” Word count: 676 For The Bradbury, Week 8 2025 |
| Sir Percival Antigonish As I was going down the stair. I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today, Oh, how I wish he’d go away. William Hughes Mearns “There’s more to it than that,” said Sir Percival. “It’s not just that I can’t seem to find any dragons.” Sir Lancelot raised a sarcastic eyebrow. Percival sighed before continuing. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think the problem is that I don’t believe in them.” A confused expression crossed Lancelot’s face. He frowned then and leant forward. “You mean dragons? You don’t believe in dragons?” “It’s not as silly as you think,” blustered Percival. “Fine for you, with your long list of dragons killed and damsels rescued, but I’ve never seen one. You’ve no idea how hard it is to believe in a creature as big and unlikely as a dragon. I mean, for a start, how can they fly when they only have such puny little wings to get them off the ground? And that’s before I even start on the stupidity of them breathing fire. I just can’t believe it and I think that’s why I’m not finding them.” Silence fell on the two as Lancelot considered this. His eyes closed in concentration, then suddenly opened again as a thought came to him. “It doesn’t help that I can assure you I’ve seen them?” Percival shrugged. “Not a bit.” “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, then. But I think you’re right.” It was Percival’s turn to look confused. “About what?” “That this is the reason why you can’t find any. If you don’t believe in something, you’re hardly going to accept the evidence of your own eyes, even if you do see one.” “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” said Percival. “So you need to work on your belief.” Percival seemed unconvinced. “How do I do that?” he asked. Lancelot leaned forward and started to draw with his finger in the dirt. “First, you’re going to need to know what you’re looking for.” He scribbled away at the figure he was drawing. “I’ve seen the pictures,” said Percival. “Yes, but you have no idea of size.” Lancelot looked up from his drawing. “There, that’s basically what a dragon looks like. Now, about size…” He looked up and around the clearing, seeking for something to make a comparison with. Percival was looking at Lancelot’s drawing. “Looks like a dragon, I’ll give you that.” But Lancelot was pointing at a tree growing at the edge of the clearing where they had met. “There, that tree. That’s about how tall they can be. Although many of them are much smaller. And it’s true they can fly and breathe fire.” “Doesn’t really help,” said Percival. Lancelot studied him for a moment. “I don’t know how I can make you believe,” he said. “That’s something you’ll have to do for yourself. But take my word for it, they exist and if you try hard enough, you’ll find your dragon.” “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Lance. But I don’t know how to make myself believe.” “It’ll come to you, I’m sure of that. Just keep trying.” Lancelot turned away and wandered over to his steed. “I guess we should be going. You have a dragon to find and kill and I have a damsel wants rescuing.” So the two friends left the clearing and set out on their separate quests. They were not to see each other again for several years. When they did, it was another chance encounter, this time on the northern frontier and they were both engaged in hunting down bandits. It was not long before Lancelot brought the subject around to dragons. “Did you ever find your dragon, Percy?” he asked. Percy looked uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he answered. “I did find one soon after we had that talk.” “Ah, so maybe I helped after all.” Lancelot had a smug grin on his face. “Yeah, I guess that might have been it,” conceded Percival. There was silence for a while and, when Lancelot realised his friend was not going to expand on that statement, he asked, “And how did that go?” Percival looked into the distance. “The dragon?” “Yes, the dragon.” Lancelot was becoming aware that Percival was being unusually reticent. “Oh, that. Well, nothing really.” “Nothing?” “Yeah, nothing.” Lancelot exploded with impatience. “What d’you mean, nothing? Did you kill the blighter or what?” Percival was still staring off into the distance. “Nah, didn’t kill it.” “Well, what then?” Percival looked up, his face flushed and angry. “The bloody thing was huge,” he said. “I had no idea. Scared s***less I was and that was before it blew fire at me. Bloody hell, Lance, you coulda warned me a bit more. Barely escaped with my life.” Lancelot grinned. “Ah, but you believe now, don’t you?” Word count: 777 For The Bradbury, Week 7 2025. Also entered for Senior Center Forum, February 2025. |
| Gamboling There was no other word for it, thought Gavin. Whichever way you looked at it, he was doing nothing other than gamboling through this summer field. The sun was high in the sky, not a cloud in sight, the air fresh and fragrant with the scent of wild flowers, the grass high and green, and he was running and leaping along in pure joy. Gamboling, in fact. There was no better word to describe it. Of course, it was usually applied to lambs prancing about in pure happiness to be alive. Or foals or maybe any young animals capable of running and jumping. Hardly the word one associates with a full grown man with more serious things on his mind. Even this consideration of how to describe what he was doing was out of place. Yet here he was, undeniably and very visibly, gamboling. The strange thing was that he felt no embarrassment in doing so. It was, after all, in a good cause. Might even be considered essential to existence. And that not only for himself. He had a wife and child to support, let it be remembered. If gamboling was required to succeed in that, he was happy to oblige. He grinned mentally at the irony. Being happy to gambol and the very act causing more gamboling. As his thought turned to the possibility of perpetual motion, he steadied himself. There was a limit to this, there was no need to get carried away. He stopped running and stood for a moment, motionless, in the field. “That’s enough, surely!” “Yeah, that’s a wrap,” called the director. The crew erupted into motion and began to pack up. Gavin remained still for a few minutes, enjoying the heat of the day. These pharmaceutical commercials were all the same, always involving running and jumping in bucolic situations. He really ought to be used to it by now. Word count: 316 For The Bradbury, Week 5 2025. |
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