The Cursed Bow

Author’s Note: I humbly submit May’s edition of  Cait Gordon’s 2020 Flash Fiction Challenge,‘ featuring an fandom expo as this month’s setting, the object is a silken garment, and the genre is action-adventure – all in 1000 words. Thanks for reading and enjoy!

Jack’s sixteen. For his birthday, Ma bought him a much wanted ticket for the Fantasy Filmgoers Fan Expo. 

Gieselle Copenhagen, a woman he’d been crushing on for years, was the featured guest. He’d also get a free autograph and photo with her.

Giselle starred in the hit TV program, The Cursed Bow, where she played an elvish princess, Lura Liarel. Jack watched the show religiously, and designed a costume of Gorwin Yellen, a peasant who loved Lura. Tall and thin, Jack’s long prematurely greying black hair helped him look the part.

On the day of the FFFE, Jack realized his mother hadn’t done the laundry.

“Ma!” he yelled. “I’m out of underwear!”

“Why don’t you wear those boxer shorts Granny sent you for your birthday.”

“But Ma, I’ve never worn boxers before! I can’t wear them with my costume, either! Put a load on now!”

“I’ve got a life, too. You’re going to have to try them or wear nothing.”

Not fancying going commando in leotards, Jack opened his top drawer and opened the box of boxers. 

Hmm, he thought, red silk. He tried them. Ooh, these make me feel sexy. I’d love to show these to Giselle. Before he could indulge a deep fantasy, he noticed the time and dressed in his costume. Luckily, he had a pair of leggings to wear under the leotard to hide the shorts. A little baggy, around the waist, but it works. 

Jack grabbed a black-stringed necklace with pewter amulet of a tree growing from a crescent moon. Gorwin had spent the last two seasons searching for this magical talisman. Lura sent him on a quest to secure it to prove his love to her. The object’s powers would  bring peace to her war-torn kingdom. Jack put on the necklace, shouldered his backpack, and left. 

The moment he hit the street, a whoosh whistled by his ear. He jumped out of his skin. Behind him, in the distance about fifty yards away, stood a man clad in black leather armour and hoodie wielding a bow. He drew another arrow from his quiver. Jack was unarmed, unlike most suburban American teens, and he bolted in the opposite direction.

Approaching the end of his street, another bowman appeared, dressed identically to the first. He drew, and Jack turned between two houses. The leotard made for uncomfortable running, and the silk boxers created a wedgie effect. He entered the backyard and in discomfort, squeezed his buttocks. On his next step, he bounced twenty feet in the air, and cleared a hedge separating two properties. He released his grip and landed softly on the other side.

He continued to the street. Three more arrowed men were in hot pursuit. Jack clenched his fanny again feeling the smooth silk in his crack, and boinged. This time he was propelled thirty feet forward with each step. It created separation from his assailants, and he bounded to the stop where a bus waited. Last on, the bus pulled away and Jack looked out the window. A dozen more dark bowmen quit their pursuit.

 Jack subtly grabbed the boxers from his crevice and relaxed.

What on earth did Granny buy me?

#

Jack joined the line of orcs, goblins, and trolls outside the convention centre to enter FFFE. A school bus approached, and a pack or the sinister men in black exited with military precision. They goose-stepped in rank towards the back of the building, bows drawn.

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief. These must’ve been a group cosplaying as the Soldiers of Fengalla, the personal guard of his love, Luna’s, enemy.  King Aimon would’ve  been a great costume, thought Jack noticing a young man in the crowd dressed in this character. I could’ve joined the soldiers!

The crowd moved at a snail’s pace among the vendor booths. Jack wanted to buy a Funko-Pop of his love,  but didn’t want to dish out fifty bucks for it. He waited forty-five minutes to pay ten dollars for a butterbeer. Man, this stuff tastes like ass!

 He proceeded to the autograph area and found the line-up for his Giselle. He saw her at the table, smiling and signing photos for fans. His heart melted. It won’t be long until he’s united with his love.

People screamed. The dark army stormed into the room and bulled their way to the front, surrounding Giselle’s table. From the crowd, King Aimon emerged.

“Lura, this is your last chance. If you don’t forfeit your kingdom to me, I will execute you here and now, and your father will suffer a slow and painful death in my dungeon.”

Something silky snuck up Jack’s crevice, and he squeezed my keister tight. Instinct took over and Jack jumped over the crowd and landed on Lura’s table. The crowd erupted in cheers.

“Gorwin, you succeeded!” said Lura. “You brought me the Talisman of Unification. Give it to me quick.”

Jack handed the necklace to her. She placed it around her neck, and it glowed. The evil king petrified. 

“We have to leave, now,” she said.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, and Jack squeezed my derriere tight, and jumped over the crowds in a shower of airborne arrows. They erupted in applause. With another bound, Jack jumped over a curtained partition where other actors were waiting in privacy.

“That was amazing Stephen,” said Giselle. “They absolutely loved it!” She kissed Jack’s cheek and he swooned. “Wait a sec, you’re not Stephen!” She referred to the actor who played Gorwin.

“No, I’m Jack, I’ve loved you for so long.”

“But Jack, how were you able to leap over the people like that?”

“I think it’s something to do with my underwear my granny bought.” he said. “Wanna see them?”

“Uh, no, but great show!”

The king emerged in jeans and FFFE shirt. “That was a great performance G, want to grab some drinks?”

“Love to!”

The two exited the building arm and arm, leaving Jack alone.

He didn’t get her autograph, but he’ll never wash his face again.


The Cursed Bow © 2020 Bruce Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Bruce Gordon.

The Junkyard Brownie

The Junkyard Brownie

At the urging of wifey, I’ve decided to participate in author ‘Nathan Burgoine’s 2018 monthly flash fiction challenge.

Author’s Note: Brownies are commonly known as wonderful chocolaty-cake treats we all love and enjoy. In context of this story, the brownie, as found in Scottish folklore, is a friendly elf. I first got exposed to brownies reading Enid Blyton’s Mr. Pinkwhistle stories as a child. This flash fiction is themed on fantasy, hot chocolate, and junkyards. Sorta like the chocolate-based elf and the drink connection. Thanks for reading and enjoy.

Soaring over the kingdom of Poonow, a majestic dragon dashed through the skies. George loved how the early sun reflected off his coppery wings. He surveyed the tiny homes as the villagers stopped their routines to admire him as he zoomed overhead.

The dragon spotted the eight foot high wall of tires, found at the outskirts.  He zoned in on a giant red X near the centre of the enclosure and descended. As a rather large dragon, the ground shook violently when he landed, and the yard, filled with tons of metallic junk ranging from vehicles to appliances, clanked and chimed summoning his arrival.

He towered over a hut near the landing pad.  A dark brown creek about a foot wide flowed from the front door, and three gnomes holding mugs were sipping a beverage and, based on the tone of their voices, sounded upset. They did not break their conversation, despite George’s thunderous arrival. Unphased, two goblins appeared passed out cuddled in a ceramic bathtub, surrounded by toasters and car parts.

“How can Ich do this to us?” the gnome in a green hat complained. “This hot chocolate he serves just does not make busting our asses hauling all the metal we find to this dump worth it anymore.”

The second gnome, dressed all in yellow answered, “It could be worse,” he bent over and filled his cup with the creek’s brown liquid and took a sip. He immediately spat it out, “Blech, I stand corrected, this does not taste like chocolate anymore, but something a bit more familiar. I can’t quite place my finger on it. Hey, where are Forlan, Rasbis, and Tanin? I have not seen them around here in ages?”

The third gnome, who had a rather large white beard and red hat replied, “You have not heard? Our despot ogre king, Ronald Tumpkin, declared them illegal immigrants in the land, and they were exiled. He feared that their metal collecting took away employment from the goblins who supported him – lazy bastards,” he glared over to the goblins snoring away. “Tumpkin claims we gnomes are responsible for all the crime in the kingdom.” The other gnomes muttered in agreement as they gagged on their drinks.

George, growing impatient at being ignored roared, which immediately got everyone’s attention. “I want my hot chocolate!”  One of the gnomes nervously offered his, but dropped the cup when he realized it was too small to satisfy the dragon’s craving.

“Ich,” he cried to the hut, “George is here. Can you please come and serve him some hot chocolate?”

A rather large brownie bolted through the door, holding a mug about the size of one of the gnomes. He placed it in the creek until it filled with the brown liquid. He offered it to George who blew a flame over it to apply more heat. and took a quick swig. He regurgitated it up immediately. “God, that tastes like shit!” George roared, “what did you do to make this? Dip two dirty socks in hot water?” He angrily threw the mug on a pile of metallic junk, that clanged and clung as it fell to the ground. “Never mind, where is our daily tribute?”

Ich nervously pointed to a pile of six rusty car mufflers. “What?” the dragon bellowed, “this is getting worse and worse! The counsel is losing patience.  You know better than anyone, Ich, that we demand the finest metal in the world! And we need twenty pounds a day per our agreement.”

George belonged to a counsel of six dragons, who long discovered the ability to turn basic metal into gold.  They seized any opportunity to expand their growing hoard, stored deep in the mountains beneath their chambers. After the last great war that devastated the kingdom, the villagers happily provided the dragons with fresh metal each day for protection. Ich, owner of the junkyard, had the responsibility of procuring the daily tribute for the dragons. The kingdom lived in subsequent peace for centuries.

The brownie, not wanting to upset George further, said nervously, “Have you not heard that King Ronald believes that by putting heavy tariffs on foreign metals, the Kingdom of Poonow would prosper and all his goblins would  gainfully be employed? Those bastards produce nothing! Remember, that great ore we gave you in the past was not native to our territory!”

“This is most disturbing,” said George, “and threatens our ancient agreement. This king must be removed! Where is he now?” He closed his eyes momentarily and opened them.

Ich replied, “In the White,” he paused as five other dragons magically teleported into his scrap yard, “Castle.”

The largest, Elrick, stood a head taller than George, and had beautiful platinum scales. He said, “Is it true, Ich, that Tumpkin’s responsible for our tribute being cheapened?” He paused and saw the creek, “Hey? Is that hot chocolate?” He lowered his head and lapped a sample. Immediately he spat it out, “That’s fucking vile!”

Ich replied, “Our king wants us to produce our own cocoa and has taxed those imports too. These goblins don’t farm either so I use sewage now.”

Enraged, Elrick breathed fire on one of the sleeping goblins, waking the other who immediately bolted for a large pile of radiators to hide. “Counsel, we must leave and destroy the White Castle, and Tumpkin immediately. Ich, you are now be in charge. Undue the tariffs and bring us back the best possible metal. And for Pete’s sake, get us some decent hot chocolate.” The dragons nodded in agreement.

It did not take them long to destroy Tumpkin and his tower. Ich’s scrap yard soon gathered the finest metal bits again that kept the counsel happy, and the world at peace.

The hot chocolate creek soon flowed with the richest tasting cocoa, and the deported gnomes returned to their former work, satisfied to be rewarded with the fine beverage.

All was well in Poonow. King Ich and the dragons prospered.


The Junkyard Brownie © 2018 Bruce Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Bruce Gordon.


dissbruceBruce Gordon lives in the ‘burbs of Ottawa with his author wifey, three basses (hers, but she lends him one), five guitars (totally his), and one drumkit (hers and hers alone). A musician since his teens, he still plays, but has also ventured down the writing path. His upcoming novel, Dissatisfied Me, A Love Story, is about a 49 year old on the verge of his 50th birthday, who reminisces about his life while sitting alone in his room in his mother’s basement.