Punch Drunk

They say elves can hold their liquor. They say elves are always perfect and poised and oh so lovely.

They are, of course, quite wrong.

Ranger Dir Dinirian sat in a shadowed corner in the tavern slowly sipping his noon-day tea.

He was contemplating the universe and where he belonged within it.

His thoughts traveled down perilous roads before reaching the obvious answer: He was meant to conquer.

Some place.

Some where.

He would have to start small.

Some place.

Some where poorly guarded.

Poorly armed.

Easy picking.

He smiled. “The Western Fields. Yes. They are perfect. Perfect for the picking.”

An elf with long blond hair dropped into the seat right next to him. He bleared a seasick, watery, completely sloshed smile at the ranger.

“What do you want, elf?”

“Name’s Quickwit. Whazzzz yours?”

“Ranger Dir Dirinian.”

Quicwit slapped his hands on the table. “Lemme talk to you about elfwomen.”

The ranger startled. “Pardon?”

“Elfwomen. Yaaa know…” His hands twirled in limp circles. “Women elves with their long hair and dain’y feet and and—” His head wobbled like he was going to tip over, but he caught himself.

He clapped his hands on the ranger’s shoulders. “Ellllffff women are…*hic* as stubborn like a cockroach in a banana split. Elf women are azzz uhhh azz tedious azzzzzz a headache in J’ly. They’re azzz psychic as a warrior eating fries and chips and cursing their inevitable dooooommm. They’re…they’re…they…”

He slumped down and laid his head on the table, bumping the ranger’s tea cup. “I don’ know why they don’ like me. Every one I date goes all ‘Letttt’zzz be friends’ and I don’ wannnna be friends.”

“Is there a good reason why you’re telling me all this?”

Quickwit slogged his head upwards. “You zzzzeeem like a good lizzzzner. Jus’ what I need. A good lizzzzzzzner.” He laid his head back down and fell asleep.

The ranger looked at the sleeping elf and smiled.

He resumed thinking about his plot to take over the Western Fields. “I will conquer them. I have no doubt about it.”

March Writing Prompts


Hobbity Bobbity And Other Spells

I went to the witch doctor
Because I was in love with you.
But you never saw me.
You never looked at me.
I didn’t exist to you.

So, I went to the witch doctor
And explained all my woes.
He smiled a black-toothed smile
And gave me a twitching-eyed wink.

“What you need, boy, is simple.
A brand new bottle of love potion #9.”

I shook my head.
I remembered what happened last time.
That cop gave me a ticket for unwanted kissing.
I would not make that mistake this time.

“I need something better.
Do you have anything new?
Something a little stronger,
But not too strong.
But not too weak.”

He laughed a sick horse laugh
That ended in something
That sounded like a mew.

“I know what you want boy.
I know what you need.
I got it right here.
Just what you seek.”

He pulled a vial out of his grease-stained cape.
The vial was clear.
The fluid inside was pink.
It was red.
It was black.
It was clear.

But the color didn’t matter.
I took the vial and pulled out the stopper.
I put the vial to my lips.
I drank it empty.

Nothing happened.
For forty-five minutes,
Nothing happened.

I began to change.
My feet grew big.
My ears grew tipped.
My feet grew massive amounts of hair
On my toes
Over my toenails
In between my toes.

And I shrank down to the size of a child.
But that wasn’t all.
My sides wobbled
And gurbled
And stretched
And grew.

My fingers shrank
Short and stubby.
My fingers grew
Hair on my knuckles
On the back of my hand
Running down to my wrist and beyond.

“What have you done to me?”
I cried in dismay.
Although dismay is a very mild term
For how I truly felt.

“I have given you my best Hobbity Bobbity spell.
Of course.
Now, you will have no problem
Attracting hobbity women.”

I wrung my stubby hands.
“I don’t want a hobbit woman!”

He sighed and shook his head.
“Some are so hard to please.
Try this one.
This will cure you of any disease.”

“I am not sick.”
I said hotly.
“I’m short.
And hairy.
And unhappy.”

“Then, this will cure you
Of all that.”
He pulled out a vial
That seemed to be made
Entirely of fat.

I eyed it suspiciously.

“Or I could give you this one.”
That vial had a mouse skull
For a stopper.

And it certainly stopped me.

“Then, there is nothing
I can do for you.”

I considered my options.
None of them were that appealing.
The side effects,
Of which there had to be some,
Were sure to be galling.

I went with the least offensive
The one topped with a skull from a mouse.
I took it.
I drank it.
I waited.

Nothing happened.
For sixty-nine minutes.

My body changed
Yet again.

So many changes.
So quick.
Too many to list.

The changes stopped.
And I had a whole new view
Of the world around me.

Everything was so big.
And I was so small.
My nose twitched.
My ears twitched.
My tail was so long.

I had a bad feeling
That this was not supposed to be.
But I had deeper concerns at that moment.
When the witch doctor’s cat
Decided to chase me.

March Writing Prompts

Fidgety Fiona

Fidgety Fiona In No Man’s Land.
That seemed to be the story of Fiona’s life.
And she was the only one holding the pen.

Men made her nervous.
Men made her flighty.
Men made her fidgety.
And there was no reason why.

She kept them at arms’ length
And even further than that.
And even further than that.
And even further than that.

Until Samuel entered her life.

He spoke calm to her.
He spoke kind.
Her nervousness and fidgetiness
Thinned and paled away.

But deep inside
It still resided.
An unfaced fear.
The need to shove
And push
And run away.

But Samuel stayed with her
And soothed her anxieties.
He didn’t shove her
Or push her
Or leave her.

He stayed.

Samuel stayed.

And slowly
Her walls began to crumble.
But surely
Her anxieties began to mellow
Into something livable.

And she found
And she discovered
That she wanted to


March Writing Prompts

Purple Nurples

She promised to make him a new delicacy. Something special and delightful. Something he had never seen.

He smiled eagerly and told her to have at it. “Surprise me or you’ll wind up dead.”

She bowed and curtsied and “Yes, Your Majestied” until at last he went away, leaving her in his kitchen. “All righty! Let’s do this.”

She mished and mashed ingredients.

She boiled and pureed.

She sliced and diced.

A touch of red food coloring.

A couple dabs of blue.

Then, just before she put the sheet of delicacies in the oven, she added a generous dash and oodle of magic.

It cooked up in less than fifteen seconds.

She took them out, cooled them, plated them, and carried them to the throne room.

She presented them to the king with all due respect. “Behold, Your Majesty! This is what you’ve been looking for. The new delicacy that will awe and amaze you. It will hold you in wonder and delight.”

He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Get to the point.”

She bowed and removed the plate cover with a flourish.

He stared at the small purple items on the plate. Their tips opened and closed in neverending belches, spewing teal colored steam with each burp.

“What is it? Is it…alive?”

“No, Your Majesty. Have one.”

He gaped at her. “Are you joking?”

“No, Your Majesty. Try one and, trust me, you’ll want them all.”

He gingerly removed one from the plate. “Is this going to kill me?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

He stared at it as it urped and burped nonstop.

He swallowed nervously and put it in his mouth.

He bit into it once.





“MmmMmmmMMMMM—-” His face went gray. Then, green. Then, absolutely white.

He dropped dead.

She blinked three of her four eyes. “Odd reaction. Purple Nurples are a great delicacy on my planet.”

She sat down on his throne and ate the rest – one Purple Nurple at a time.


March Writing Prompts

A Galloping Gadzook

I remember.
The fog wreathed and wraithed the horse fences along the lane. It was no longer day, but it wasn’t quite night.

And I walked the lane alone.

I remember.
The fog was cold. It chilled my skin. But the fog smelled like watermelon in June –
warm, sweet and balmy.

But I didn’t feel like I was alone.

I remember.
The fog lifted and the fog fell. It revealed and it hid what it chose.

I wasn’t alone.

I remember.

I remember.

I remember the sounds of hooves. The sound of hooves hidden in the fog. Clopping, clopping, clopping. Somewhere in the fog.

I remember standing still.

I remember feeling confused.

I remember panic.
Whatever was in the fog was heading straight for me. And I couldn’t tell which direction it was coming. It was coming fast and steady and relentless. I dropped to my knees and ducked my head down. I hoped that it would miss me. I hoped it would jump over me. I really hoped that it wouldn’t trample me.


Then, it just stopped.

I remember it just stopped. The smell of watermelon and peaches and beachcombing scented the fog. I raised my head.

And there it was.

I remember now.

It stood there so proud, so beautiful, so rare. It was part of the fog. Swirling black and white and gray. It looked down at me with solemn horse eyes. Its fringed ears flicked independently of each other.

It bowed its head and leisurely sniffed me: head, neck, shoulders.

I remember I wanted to touch it, to see if it were real.

I raised my hand.

It became one with the fog without a sound.

I was alone.

I could feel that the gadzook was gone.

I remember.
I sat there in the foggy lane. I waited for it to return. Maybe it would return.

I’m still waiting for it to return.

March Writing Prompts

Beware The Fizzy Whizzys

Beware the morn of March!
When the wind blows high
And the weeping willows sway.
For that is when
The fizzy whizzys come out
To play.

They tangle the clotheslines
And snap all the clothing pins.
They let the dog outside
And let all the chickens in.

They gather soot from the chimneys
And throw it on the floor.
They track mud on the staircase.
And tap nails into the door.

They turn the pillows inside out
And paint all the feathers red.
They make every tv set blare
“Poor Jud Is Dead”.

There is nothing you can do to stop them.
Nor any way to make them behave.
You can only wait out their mischief
And wait for them to return to their graves.

For fizzy whizzys are spirits, you see.
Spirits of mischief and glee.
They never learned the proper way to behave.
That’s why they harass decent people
Like you and me.


March Writing Prompts

Volatile Voracity

My cat’s appetite
Comes and goes
In spurts and spots.

One day he’ll pace outside
My door
Sobbing and wailing about
His empty stomach.

He will grab the plate
With his well-polished
White hands
And pull it down to his level
As I’m trying to put it down.

The next day he’ll look
Disdainful and suspicious
At any food I offer him
As if I’m apt to poison him.

He will turn his back on the plate
And walk away
With tail held high
And three thousand levels of
Attitude and sass.

Then, the next day
He’ll be throwing himself
At my bedroom door
Yowling full throttle
About me starving him.

I offer him his food
Every day
And always hope
For the best.


February Writing Prompts