@Morganna: this paints a fascinating picture in only four lines! The middle couplet are my favourite as they say so much so compactly, though the last line is a lovely punctuation mark. Fantastic!
For today's prompt we're revisiting this, as I was reminded of it yesterday and re-reading it made me smile.
Playing the fool Shlomo the hobbit arced through the air listening to it whistle in his ears and feeling the rapid motion tug tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind him, sat in the Inn of the Last Rites (formerly the Inn of the Shire), Gandalf admired the ring he'd taken from Shlomo's finger and decided, in a rare moment of sanity, to be generous. Shlomo's airspeed dropped slightly, to the point where a landing had a 45% chance of survivability. As the trees below thickened and got closer, he wondered if he'd simply be impaled on a long branch instead. He tore through the canopy of leaves feeling twigs and thin, young branches tear at his clothes and skin and wondered for a moment if this is what a block of parmesan cheese felt like as it met the grater. He tried to brace himself for the inevitable impact with the trunk of a tree, but was startled by a sudden brightness -- he had dipped below the tops of the trees but somehow emerged from the forest. With a sad splash he dropped into a river, in the middle of a ring of tall, ethereal men who were watering their horses. "What ho!" said the tallest of the men, who was slim and elongated and was nearly three metres from head to where his thighs met the water. His face was as white as fresh milk and his eyes were the colour of long-curdled milk and he wore a dark, iron crown that was mostly spikes and loathing. "Did anyone order a drone delivery?" "Probably elf-shot," said another. He was half a metre shorter but his fingers were long enough to have six knuckles each and gave the impression that they could wrap comfortably twice round Shlomo's throat. His eyes were tiny dark spots in a pasty face. "As in, shot thrown by elves, or something shot by elves?" This man was as tall as the second and his voice sounded like he only took it out and used it at Christmas. "Both?" Six-knuckled fingers seized Shlomo by the neck and hauled him out of the water. His clothes hung heavily about him, clinging wetly to his skin, and he was still seeing stars from the speed of his passage. "Are you fishing?" came a voice from the banks of the river. "We've told you lot before, Queen Dilerious does not permit poachersl. "Does this look like a fish to you?" demanded the three-metre tall man. "Quit playing the fool, elf. If anything we're clearing up pollution from your river so that our horses aren't poisoned by it." "It looks like a three-day-dead catfish." "Your mother looks like a dead catfish!" "I'm not a fish," said Shlomo, though he had to try twice as the first attempt just resulted in a jet of river water coming up from his lungs. "What did it say?" shouted the elf from the banks. "It said it's not a catfish," called back the 6-knuckled man. "Do all your fish deny themselves?" "I'm a hobbit," said Shlomo. "What did it say?" "It said it's lunch!" The crowned man leaned in, and down, and down, and down until his eyes were level with Shlomo's. "We're Nazgul," he said. "And I'm pretty sure I ate your mother."
3 comments:
Foppish and silly,
Once (maybe twice) around the block already
Only too desperate, no one wants a second
Look.
@Morganna: this paints a fascinating picture in only four lines! The middle couplet are my favourite as they say so much so compactly, though the last line is a lovely punctuation mark. Fantastic!
For today's prompt we're revisiting this, as I was reminded of it yesterday and re-reading it made me smile.
Playing the fool
Shlomo the hobbit arced through the air listening to it whistle in his ears and feeling the rapid motion tug tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind him, sat in the Inn of the Last Rites (formerly the Inn of the Shire), Gandalf admired the ring he'd taken from Shlomo's finger and decided, in a rare moment of sanity, to be generous. Shlomo's airspeed dropped slightly, to the point where a landing had a 45% chance of survivability. As the trees below thickened and got closer, he wondered if he'd simply be impaled on a long branch instead.
He tore through the canopy of leaves feeling twigs and thin, young branches tear at his clothes and skin and wondered for a moment if this is what a block of parmesan cheese felt like as it met the grater. He tried to brace himself for the inevitable impact with the trunk of a tree, but was startled by a sudden brightness -- he had dipped below the tops of the trees but somehow emerged from the forest. With a sad splash he dropped into a river, in the middle of a ring of tall, ethereal men who were watering their horses.
"What ho!" said the tallest of the men, who was slim and elongated and was nearly three metres from head to where his thighs met the water. His face was as white as fresh milk and his eyes were the colour of long-curdled milk and he wore a dark, iron crown that was mostly spikes and loathing. "Did anyone order a drone delivery?"
"Probably elf-shot," said another. He was half a metre shorter but his fingers were long enough to have six knuckles each and gave the impression that they could wrap comfortably twice round Shlomo's throat. His eyes were tiny dark spots in a pasty face.
"As in, shot thrown by elves, or something shot by elves?" This man was as tall as the second and his voice sounded like he only took it out and used it at Christmas.
"Both?"
Six-knuckled fingers seized Shlomo by the neck and hauled him out of the water. His clothes hung heavily about him, clinging wetly to his skin, and he was still seeing stars from the speed of his passage.
"Are you fishing?" came a voice from the banks of the river. "We've told you lot before, Queen Dilerious does not permit poachersl.
"Does this look like a fish to you?" demanded the three-metre tall man. "Quit playing the fool, elf. If anything we're clearing up pollution from your river so that our horses aren't poisoned by it."
"It looks like a three-day-dead catfish."
"Your mother looks like a dead catfish!"
"I'm not a fish," said Shlomo, though he had to try twice as the first attempt just resulted in a jet of river water coming up from his lungs.
"What did it say?" shouted the elf from the banks.
"It said it's not a catfish," called back the 6-knuckled man. "Do all your fish deny themselves?"
"I'm a hobbit," said Shlomo.
"What did it say?"
"It said it's lunch!"
The crowned man leaned in, and down, and down, and down until his eyes were level with Shlomo's. "We're Nazgul," he said. "And I'm pretty sure I ate your mother."
Morganna - agree with Greg, the middle two lines truly make this poem :)
Greg - hah, that's a good choice for a continuation, as it really was unfair to leave Shlomo flying through the air like that.
Actually, on second thought, now that I've read this maybe he'd have been better off flying for eternity...
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