Two Sentence Tuesday #34

            His clock chimed “GO TO SLEEP!”, as he stared sorrowfully at his computer screen during a fruitless scavenger hunt for anything resembling a good idea. Spectacularly failing that, he sought meaningful words of encouragement from his truest friend, Johnnie Walker. 

The Druid of the West

Born to the Nackle clan in the village of Willowil, Nim had always been uncommonly mischievous, even by gnomish standards. He cherished nothing in the world so much as he did his little practical jokes and there was scarcely a Nackle, a Knobhobben, or a Floom in the entire village who didn’t sleep with a wary eye open. That was hardly surprising, though. For most of them, the memory of a certain summer festival was still vividly fresh within their minds. By the end of that day’s festivities, the sweet, balmy evening of food and merriment had taken a bizarre turn, filled with visions of melting trees and strawberry-flavored sunsets. Of course, Nim had only offered his neighbors that salad during the great feast; they didn’t have to eat it… and what self-respecting forest gnome doesn’t recognize the Daymare Mushroom, anyway?

One fateful night, one of Nim’s pranks had gone terribly awry and the village was awoken by the hiss of angry violet flames spewing from the windows of Dreeble Knobhobben’s hut. The village elder, himself, was soon spotted erupting through a mountainous plume of black smoke, howling in agony as he attempted to snuff out the blaze that had engulfed his treasured beard. Miraculously, the aftermath of the fire had found the elder mostly unharmed but the shameful young Nim was punished with permanent exile from Willowil for his reckless and destructive behavior. Morgo, village druid and the patriarch of the Nackle clan, had taken pity on his disgraced son. He had imparted unto Nim a weatherworn tome containing the ancient teachings of forest druids, in hope that it would calm his son’s reckless spirit and teach him to survive in the untamed wilds.

Alone for the first time in his life, Nim had paid little mind to his father’s offering but had instead set his sights on adventure, leaving the great forests of Eradas behind and wandering into one of its seediest villages, the harbor town of Wydale. Bombarded by the underhanded promises and phony smiles of the pirates and brigands, who had made that moldy port their home, Nim had found the pleasures of excess amongst the big folk. Barely had he time to shake the pine needles from his coat before he had become enamored with generous plates of exotic foods, overflowing casks of spiced rum, and the beguiling wiles of shameless women who were twice his size. However, two or three back alley attacks and a run-in with a cutthroat gang from the docks had quickly convinced Nim that Wydale was no place for a gnome and so his journey had continued, deep within the solitude of the Western Woods.

Hiding away in a simple hut in the quiet forest, Nim had reached for the dusty text, he had previously ignored, and had learned to open his heart to the natural world in ways he had never before imagined. He learned how to see the spark of life within a single leaf and how to feel the fury of a coming storm upon the breeze. And he had realized that the forest wasn’t quiet at all but teemed with all manner of beast. He found he could speak with them and they soon became his dearest friends. Through decades of practice, he had also learned to unlock the magic hidden within the natural elements until he was able to create fire in the palm of his hand, make plants bloom and blossom by his will, or cure the sick and dying with a single touch. Nim had breathed a sincere thanks to his father for such an important gift as he had honored Morgo’s generosity by acting as healer and protector to that small corner of forest.

Still, while Nim had grown into a wise and peaceful druid, his youthful restlessness had remained a smoldering ember in the depths of his heart. Over time, his longing for excitement and for the companionship of peers had grown stronger and stronger until Nim had seen it as his destiny to close the door on his little wooden shanti and venture off back to the world of men. Night fell on the fifth day of his travels and he wandered into the tavern in the village of Stowick. As the enchantingly familiar aroma of pipe smoke and sweet mead ensnared his senses, the temptation in his soul had compelled him to stop for the night.

“You never know,” he thought, smacking his lips as he stepped up to the bar. “Perhaps someone around here is in need of a druid…” 

Two Sentence Tuesday #33

            “I wonder what it’s like in California,” he muttered, scraping the thick, frigid blanket off of his car. “I bet they don’t have to put up with this shit…” 

Two Sentence Tuesday #32

            The towering fir stood proudly, twinkling in hues of periwinkle, auburn, and plum. I sat before it, transfixed, and my enchantment had fleetingly carried me back to the innocence of my first Christmas. 

Two Sentence Tuesday #31

            The valiant knight, wielding a sword of emerald flame, had stood defiantly before the fury of the vile warlord, who waved his menacing, sanguine blade with an insatiable hunger for devastation. In the space between heartbeats, the dueling nemeses had attacked with a cataclysmic clash that had shaken the very foundations of the earth. 

Two Sentence Tuesday #30

            "Imagine the world at peace," he sighed, mournfully wiping the stains off of his glasses. “We’re not there yet, but maybe someday.”

Two Sentence Tuesday #29

            Alone on the stage, under the bleary gaze of inebriated eyes, his fingers plucked the strings as he began a slow, sorrowful lament in the key of F minor. He found a familiar woman in a green dress, sitting in solitude across the room, and as the pair made an invisible connection, she understood that the song was about them.