Category Archives: Fiction

Fiction

That World

Note: I wrote this very short story in a rush–a few hours in a single day. Vocal.media had a short-story challenge with a grand prize of $20,000. I figured ‘why not?’ and submitted this. The prompt was:  “Write a short creative fiction piece, no longer than 2,000 words, about a post-apocalyptic dystopia. . . . The only requirement is that your story must include a heart-shaped locket.” (DL, Sept. 12, 2021)

“Careful, Nour,” he said to her as she picked her way along the beach. Eyes scanning the ground in front of her, she dutifully acknowledged her father’s warning. “Yes, Baba.”

The day was hot. High sun showered her head with heat, barely kept at bay by the bright hijab wrapped meticulously around her black hair. The light was dazzling off the white sand. She kept her gaze low, a shading hand at her brow to save herself a headache later. They didn’t have long before Dhuhr, the early midday prayer, and Baba was seldom late.

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Fiction

Character Vignette: Brorig

Note: I started this in Notes on my iPhone in December of 2017, the same time I was polishing the fantasy ranger vignette. The last edit was made in April of 2020. I’m sure the bulk of the writing was done in 2017. I think Brorig and the ranger are the same character, although Brorig may be a hermit-style monk who lives in the Underdark. (DL, Sept. 18, 2021)

“I know nothing of my parents. One of them was an orc; the other was a human. That’s it. Earlier than I can remember, I was taken by the Bloodskull clan in a raid, and I was raised by one of their war chiefs as a Bloodskull warrior. By the time of my Gurk’cha ceremony at fourteen, I had already been on many raids and spilled much blood. I do not like to remember those days. Orcs live like wild beasts, and I lived as an orc. 

In the summer of my seventeenth year we were raiding in the lowlands of Mortgwyern, camping in the deep woods by day, taking what plunder we could by night. I was as bloodthirsty as the rest. One day as most of us slept we were ambushed by rangers from the provincial guard. Every orc was slaughtered, but I was netted and taken alive to serve as a thrall in the provincial coal mines. 

For two years I was a slave in the mines and lived in the dark and the dust with outlaws and outcasts. 

It was in that place of despair and death that I first began to live. 

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Fiction

Character Vignette: Fantasy Ranger

Note: I started this in Notes on my iPhone in October of 2016; it was last edited in December of 2017. Tolkien has influenced the language, and Dungeons and Dragons has influenced the characterization. I think of him as half orc. (DL, Sept. 18, 2021)

He moved through the deep woods like one long acquainted with dark places, for so he was. As always, he carried with him the same sort of kit he had carried in the armies of Dar Sheiling, although time and experience had taught him the best substitions to make in keeping with his current life.

The pair of Dar Sheiling javelins–short, heavy, cruelly barbed, and cast in the hundreds by the front ranks to break the shock of enemy assaults–he had replaced with a single, long spear. The hard, heavy, iron-soled boots so apt for wearing out many leagues on imperial roads and for treading down the fallen he had replaced with supple doe-hide boots for more nimble footing and greater stealth in dangerous places. “Besides,” he said, “If they fail me in battle, better to lose my feet all at once than to grind them to stubs day after day.”

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Fiction

What Happened One Christmas

Note: I wrote this story for my senior English class in high school. Reading it now causes me to cringe severely. It’s painfully bad in some respects, particularly in the way it mashes a hard Christian message on at the end despite being full of outlandish gore and alcohol consumption. It strikes me as very much the product of a Christian teen (it’s very teenagery) who was trying to cleverly push the boundaries while also maintaining a foot in the Christian camp. However despite it’s glaring flaws, it fascinates me because of how well it captures the creative and cultural influences that were active in my life during high school. The writing is heavily influenced in particular by three sources I clearly hear in the background of some passages: I hear the early Internet (particularly an old web series called Grudge Match) in the irreverent comedy and outlandish violence; I hear Tom Clancy, particularly Clear and Present Danger, in the descriptions of the elf commandos; and I hear Frank Peretti’s Christian supernatural novels (This Present Darkness and Piercing the Darkness) in the closing section. Rereading this now is a vivid reminder of how much I liked all three of those things then. A few months after this, I started my five years at Bob Jones University, during which time I turned away from the ‘worldly’ aspects of this story and began to invest ever more heavily both intellectually and emotionally in the Gospel elements captured in the closing section. I have not cleaned up any of the many typos in this piece. (DL, Sept. 19, 2021)

Once upon a time, there was an old, fat, philandering lawyer named Daddy Mack. Now Daddy Mack had two loves in his life, beer and guns,  a deadly combination at best. One Christmas Eve, Daddy Mack had been celebrating in his customary fashion, when he decided that he wanted to shoot himself a nice buck for Christmas dinner. Therefore, Mack trundled off to his gun cabinet to select the perfect weapon for the occasion. After several moments of reflection, he settled on his pride and joy, a mini-gun that he had purchased from some Arab terrorists after seeing Terminator 2. He loaded up a backpack with sufficient ammo for about 15 seconds of automatic carnage, and strolled over to his wardrobe, where he selected a black leather jacket, and motorcycle boots. He then grabbed his Terminator 2 soundtrack, stuffed it into his discman, donned his shades and headed for the garage. He loaded all his gear onto his Harley, kicked the starter, and crashed through the garage door, singing “Bad to the Bone” at the top of his lungs.

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Fiction

Sir Thomas Somersby

Note: This piece was written for my sophomore (or just possibly freshman) English class. It’s the work of a young person and is both derivative and sentimental. Tolkien is a strong influence on it (the horn); even stronger is Jane Porter’s The Scottish Chiefs, a book I loved as a young teen with its picture of selfless knighthood. Arthurian legend is obviously an influence as well. Wholly absent is any Internet influence (compare this post-Internet piece from two years later), while obviously present is the earnest Christian faith in which I was reared. (DL, Sept. 19, 2021)

Thomas Somersby was the third son of Lord Peter Somersby, a minor baron with few vassals, and fewer knights. His eldest brother stood to inherit the family property and his second brother was preparing for the priesthood, so at the age of eight Thomas began training for the knighthood.

At fifteen, he was made a page, and sent to the castle of his uncle, Lord Roundhall for further training. At their parting, Lord Peter gave his son a horn and said to him, “Thomas, I give to you the horn of the house of Somersby. I have chosen, as did my fathers before me, the son I felt most worthy of this honor. Wind it only in mortal danger, and never part with it for it is a thing of legend.” On his eighteenth birthday, he received his silver spurs and become the squire of Sir Darren Foebane. Six months later, in a skirmish with Saxon invaders, Thomas Somersby received his baptism of fire.

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