If you have a particular favorite story, let me know, because I'm taking them down soon.
Donald's gane up the hill hard and hungry Donald comes down the hill wild and angry; Donald will clear the gouk's nest cleverly Here's to the king and Donald Macgillavry!
Neither I nor Dalrock mean to imply either that biblical headship is "a game" or that it consists of the self-appointed-stud-bull attitude marketed as being "Alpha" or having what its marketers call "Game" (capital G). They are in fact mutually incompatible, but are far nearer in form-- and this is Dalrock's point-- than either is to the culturally-popular emasculated gamma-male role that is too often mistaken for "being a Good Christian Husband."
This one's a short stand-alone I wrote back in '04. It's set in medaeval Europe, sometime after the events of King Arthur's time. It is, of course, my own work, and not to be republished or sold. Enjoy. “I am old,” I tell him. “My eyes do not work like they used to. Give me… Continue reading Glastonbury Abbey
We pushed our way through the shattered city. All around us were the signs of a race without hope, an entire nation devoid of both love and life. "Is this what they saw at Pompeii?" I wondered. Men and women both, dead before they died.
"My friends, guests, neighbors, jokebrunts, et cetera, et cetera, I have asked you to come because Things are Happening," said the satyr.
"Now, here are my maps, all very incomplete, of course—a little hobby of mine. Folks from all over come in here, mostly gnomes, of course, but a few dwarves not too proud to duck a bit sometimes. The Father has blessed all his children, and I feel my blessing is to share in hospitality."
Were those footsteps? He hid himself behind a massive oak—greater than any he had seen in Europe. The trunk was more than five feet in diameter, and smelled musty—very musty. He could almost smell the centuries of age in the bark. But there were the footsteps again! This time he was sure of it. He peered out around the trunk...
Then a roar like the fall of a second Atlantis tore the jungle behind us. The great pillar stood shuddering, and then it fell, smashing branches and saplings on its way. It shook the ground when it fell, and the treetops parted ...
Ladies and gentlemen, and scoundrels of all ages, this is the page for the stories.
"I'm wondering if there isn't a connection between this Viking’s appearance and our man's disappearance." "Yes, but I still don't know. It's all...so...well, I don't know. So unusual..."
Tigers walk here, where Maharajahs rode, with jackals as their grooms and serving men. There lies the ancient, ruined city. There lies Delwaar San.
It only occurred to me this week, some few days after I opened the Stories shelf with The Bestiary and The Legend of Gnat Bunker what those two pieces have in common. They are not merely "creative" but meta-creative. They're about how we create what we do, and in a deeper sense, why.
Nat took another drink and began another tale...
It was a slow day in 1871...