Five (and a half) Tips, but Who’s Counting? It’s Hot!
When you're at home
if you're alone,
don't put stuff on;
'specially nylon.
_______________
Don't be a rube.
Tie an ice cube
under each arm.
What could it harm?
Plant one or two
into each shoe.
Freeze your nethers!
(even better.)
_______________
Or better yet,
don't break a sweat!
Avoid workouts!
(Was there a doubt?)
_______________
Eat something chill.
Gazpacho kills.
'Mater aspic
might do the trick.
A vichyssoise
will cool you off.
Or try a bisque.
What could you risk?
_______________
You really ought
to think cool thoughts.
Just settle down.
Hot flashes drown ...
with an iced tea ...
and daiquiri!
Raise up a flask ...
(Do you need ask?)
of ale or wine.
Fill up that stein!
Cool from within.
Vodka (or gin?)
martinis' neat!
Then plunge your feet
in cool grape skins.
Begin again!
_______________
When you're at home
if you're alone,
don't put stuff on ...
Il Eskrimci of Constantinople
The morning had been exceedingly fine, up until now. People of all descriptions hurried past my sidewalk breakfast table; beautiful women heading to market, merchants to the docks, sailors to the brothels, in a never ending cycle. And the wine was doing it’s work, clearing my head of it’s memories.
His tankard lay at my feet, it’s contents soaking my shirt. He was dressed roughly, wearing the rag-tag costume of a gypsy scoundrel, his movements those of a drunkard, yet I noticed that his eyes were bright, and knowing. Had the spill been an accident? Fool the man might be, but not a drunken fool... or so I surmised.
“You must answer for the shirt,” I scowled at the knave. “It is silk. You do not have the look of one who can afford silk.”
“I have no money, Sire. Only those spent coins which bought the spilt wine.” His English was good enough, the accent familiar. A Pole perhaps, or a Slovak?
“Well, you must answer for it, anyways. How do you propose to?”
“I’ve naught but this sword, Sire.” He drew it from a dangling scabbard as he spoke. It was a fine blade, a blade made for a king or prince, certainly not for one such as this man. The blade itself was layered Damascus, the cross-guard polished silver, the handle leather, and the pommel inlayed with sapphires. It was easily the equal to the one in my own scabbard, if not it’s better. It was obvious that this man could not afford such a sword, so it stood to reason that he had taken it, but from whose dead hand?
But his intent confused me. “Here now!” I exclaimed. “That sword is too high a price for this shirt.”
“Ah, Sire. You misunderstand. It is not a trade I propose, but a contest.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do. And I’ve come many miles looking for you, too. Yours is a long reaching, if surly reputation. I’ve come to take it from you.”
I stood then, pulling the wine-stained blouse over my head as I did so. My upper arms and forearms bulged from years of rigorous practice and training. A breeze from the sea tickled the sweat on my naked torso. There was an audible ring from my blade as it was unsheathed, sending those nearby scurrying from the sidewalk. But they ventured none too far, for here was their chance to see the one whom the Turks called Il Eskrimci, or, “The Swordsman” at work. It would be a story those gathered around could tell their grandchildren someday, that they were here to witness greatness. I carved the air with my blade’s tip, the steel singing as it expertly swept and sliced, a show before the show for the benefit of those lucky enough to see, and to hear.
I took a long pull at my own tankard before turning to face my adversary. I was a head taller, standing. “You’ve a powerful Jen,” I commented to him. “He has granted your wish to die. En guarde, my foolish friend. Why waste more time?”
“I am not your friend, but I can also be courteous, on occasion. “En garde.”
The gypsy - if that is what he was - while smaller moved exceedingly well, displaying speed and balance. He held his sword strangely, in a different style. Wary, but confident, I assumed the offensive slowly, purposefully testing his skill, my attack deliberate, yet always pressing.
He parried easily, and again. There was strength in his grip, and in his wrist. I pressed harder while still maintaining a safe defensive posture, wary of a trick, but he also seemed satisfied to wait, so I pressed harder yet, wanting a feel for his reposte. I advanced with a quick succession of jabs and slices that took him aback. Surprise sprung into his eyes, but not yet fear, although that would come soon enough. His parry was successful, almost. As my attack relented he relaxed. In that anticipated moment I allowed my blade’s tip to drop down where it ever-so gently touched the inside of his sword wrist; a light touch only, feathery, probably not even felt, yet the trickle of bright red blood it left behind was unmistakable. There was an audible gasp from those looking on. Feeling the bite, he stole a glance and was visibly shaken by the red spots that were already accumulating on the grimy granite beneath his feet.
His face held a new caste now. Gone was his braggadocio. In came the fear, and the fury. He lunged. I was pressed to hold him off, our nearly invisible blades clattering like ceramic china in a bustling kitchen as the crowd fell silent around us, everyone sensing the end of the drama, and impatient for it.
I suddenly felt very good. The exercise was awakening sleeping muscles, while the nearness of death awakened intoxicated senses. The late-morning sun was warm on my skin, the breeze soft with the fresh odors of the sea and the stink of mankind mixing nicely together upon it. It was a good day to be alive! As the gypsy’s attack ebbed, it’s strength dispersing laterally like a wave on a beach, my riposte sliced into the nipple over his heart; not deep mind you, but deep enough. Through his torn shirt the crowd saw it, and sensed that I was toying with him. A great cheer for my skill and aim rent the air. I smiled at the adoration, despite myself. “You have come a long way to die. What is your name? I do not like to kill a man I do not know.”
“My name is Korlov.”
Well, worry not, Korlov. It is a beautiful day to die.” A distant memory surfaced, the memory of a peasant girl named Korlov. Maria Korlov. The riddle was solved. “You came here to avenge your sister? So easy to seduce, that one. She must keep you very busy, if that is your duty?”
“She has a bastard child because of you, and no man wants her because of it. You ruined her, and I will ruin you.”
“Come then. I am bored with talking.”
Blood saturated his shirt front, and oozed from his wrist. Soon he would weaken. I could already feel a looseness in his blade from the injured wrist. It would not be long now. The moment called for patience, but I had little. After all, I was a showman!
So I sprung. My lunge caught Korlov by surprise. His parry was slow. My jab intended for his cheek was knocked upward, glancing along his forehead and scalp, opening a great slit at his hairline. The blood flowed into Korlov’s eyes, blinding him. He swept up his arm, wiping them clear with his sleeve. When they reopened my blade was at his throat, waiting. “Checkmate. Go home, Korlov. Here is your chance. Go take care of your sister, and your nephew. Your heart is good. Too good to die like this, bleeding in the street.”
But one last time he came, and with a yell of fury this time. His left sleeve raised to clear his sight he attacked furiously, his desperation driving me back to my table where I stepped on Korlov’s dropped tankard, which rolled beneath my boot. Down I went, the marble walkway catching my head and stunning me, but not so much that I couldn’t feel the blade slip easily between my ribs as if lubricated. And not so much that I couldn’t feel it removed, or hear the gurgle of air that escaped behind it. And not so much that I couldn’t feel the slowing of my pulse, or realize that the career of Il Eskrimci, the world’s greatest swordsman, had prematurely ended, for had I not bested my man?
And the final thought as I lay dying was not of a far away Mother, or of a peasant girl named Korlov. No, my final thought as I drifted away was that those gathered to watch had gotten their show, they had a story for their grandchildren...
... and that was enough for me.
March Feather Project Winners
We sincerely thank you all for joining the challenge. There were some great stories that made their way in and there were some with great potential. but, there were stories that stood above the rest, and here they are in no particular order
WINNERS
Snowed In by QueenRhea (prose name) You'll gain access to the psyche of the main character as they process the happenings around them
{We made it to the cabin with no trouble and luckily with little of the perma-snow getting into our boots. Sitting on a tree stump that I’m using as a make-shift seat-- while pine needles try to find their way into every crevice of my clothes-- I can see what Jed meant when he said that everything is clearer when you’re up here. The sun pierces through the clouds and illuminates everything around us, enhancing the changing color of the leaves, the branches on the ground and even turns the greyness of rocks into a happier hue. The air is colder up here, but that just seems to make it more bracing.}
The Cost of Freedom by BristerXD (Prose name) In this, we are told the tale of one Tyler Bindweed as he navigates through life with the hand he'd been dealt
{At what point do you know what fear truly is? And what I mean is, fear in all of its means and iterations. Terror, horror, dread, creep, anxiety, and all possible ways of describing one of living nature’s most primal senses. Most attempts at understanding fear only go so far as to cheaply replicate its effects by cheaply imitating its triggers. Drawn up pictures of grotesque beings, fiction written from the point of view of corrupted minds, numerical statistics of cancer likelihoods and death tolls. Even as these come close to the true root of fear, many choose to walk free of them, the societal machination in which they are born in offering many avenues to turn away from their natural calls to the void.}
Half of Me by WritesSy (Prose Name) This story deals with the struggle of acceptance from the side of the Main Character that has been stricken with a unique dilemma.
{It was a brisk winter morning by the lake the last time I met the demon.
He appeared as he always did: unexpected but with the subtle, foreboding twinge of cold twisting my stomach. Shivering, I pulled the heavy uwagi coat tighter over my kimono--the demon offered his Montbell down jacket. I declined.
Following the creaking bamboo grove on my left and keeping the demon between myself and the reflections of the orange sunrise over the lake to my right, we shuffled along the marked trail, our breath misting the air and mingling between us. With falling snow coating our tracks behind us, we walked a good hour in silence before his graveled voice carved through it.}
The Nature of Heroes by sflydon (Prose name) This read has you follow Jack Owinsson, a farmer with dreams of glory and fame.
{Jak Owinsson stood upon the edge of the forest looking down on the military encampment below. He had finally made it. After two days of travel, he had found the camp of the Battlehawks; the most respected mercenary company in all of Kendar. He would finally be able to join the war and leave his boring farm life behind.
In his sixteen years of life, he had always dreamed of becoming a hero like the ones from the stories. So far, it had been an uninspiring beginning. On his two days of walking from Harnan Vale, he had encountered no bandits, no damsels in distress, not even so much as a wagon stuck in the road to start Jak on his way to herodom. But, then again, he supposed not every story had to begin with epic action and auspicious signs.}
We hope to see more participants in the next challenge
A Kinder, Gentler Death (Repost)
I
If Death would only tickle
Our fears could ease a little
When he comes to your bed
Would it cause you more dread
If he carried a feather or sickle?
II
And if Death could give us a smile
Spread some cheer once in a while
He needn’t bring gifts
Though he could fill the wish
Of the poor man whose pain is a trial.
III
And finally, if Death would just vary
And sometimes be temporary
If he’d let us come back
Or send signs through the black
We’d find him more complimentiary.