Daily writing exercise, 750words.com
fiction by Jason Edwards
The puissant knight on his mighty steed. Charges down the hill. At the ogre. The vile ogre. The evil, vile ogre. The real, live, evil, vile, ogre. The ogre that lives, does evils, is vile’s beast of burden, never listens to Elvis, rips veils from maidens, is named Silev. Silev the evil, vile, live, veil-snatching Elvis-hating ogre. At the bottom of the hill. Down which hill the puissant knight charges. On his mighty steed. His steed is a charger, and the knight is a charger, and the steed is mighty, puissant as well. A different kind of puissance. Whereas the knight’s puissance is in the manner of arms and war and saving maidens from ogres, the steed’s puissance is the manner of charging, mightily, down hills, at ogres, with knights astride. Knight with lances. That gleam. In the sun! This steed, with this knight. This knight, with this lance. This lance, with his shiny point gleaming in the rising summer sun. As down the hill they go. Charging. At the ogre. Who was probably, at the moment, not listening to Elvis. Perhaps one of those boy bands. One Directions. This Ogre, sitting at a small table with a maiden fair, listening to One Directions on his iPod Nano. A very small table. The maiden fair, dressed in a gown of gossamer and moonlight. Somehow. In the rising morning sun. The ogre and the maiden. Sitting. Sipping tea. A morning tea, like English Breakfast. Also on the table, breakfast. A rasher of. A scramble of. A toasted. In a glass, Ovaltine. In another glass, Tang. In another glass, a good breakfast drinking chocolate. Something from Spain. Something Spanish. Imported. For this hill is not in Spain. Nay. This knight is not of that land they call Espania. Nay. Nor this maiden fair. The ogre? Who knows. Who knows where evil, vile, etc ogres come from. From where they hail. Maybe Hell. Maybe he’ll hail hell when he hears the puissant knight astride his mighty steed charging down the hill. For now, all he hears is One Directions. Nor does he see the knight. The mighty knight. And his puissant steed. All he sees is the maiden fair, the blush of her cheek, the rosy blush on her breast ‘neath her gown of gossamer and moonlight. For that is all he can see. For the maiden-fair is not exactly the most diminutive specimen in the world. She is not exactly the wee-est lass upon the land. She’s not the smallest gal in the shoppe. She’s actually quite large. In a word, mighty. In two words, very substantial. In four words, a whole lotta woman, right there. She also hates Elvis, but for different reason from the (evil, recall) ogre. For whereas the (vile, to be sure) ogre hates Elvis for reasons sartorial, the maiden fair, gargantuan and practically nude here at the hill-bottom breakfast table, wolfing down bacon n eggs n toast n tea n ‘tine n tang, hates Elvis for reasons conspiratorial. For whereas the ogre hates Elvis and prefers One Directions for the cut of their jibs, the maiden-fair who grows ever larger by the moment is of the theory that Elvis faked the moon landing. If you were to, say, charge down a hill of outrage upon a mighty steed of logic wielding a rather phallic lance of evidence at this maiden fair, making sure in advance that she was not only willing but eager, for it would never do to save from ogres maidens who, in this day in age, are perfectly able to “save” themselves, whatever the hell that means, thank you very much, without express written consent, and only after a period of reflection, mediation, contemplation, and concentration on that classic Zen Koan: “What Does Evil Love.” And who’s to say that, having pierced the maiden-head of her conspiracy theories that you won’t have impregnated her with, one the one hand, the truth, but on the other hand, a babe that bears half her originally-hating Elvis DNA? Such an innocent “bae” as they say would grow up, verily, conflicted. Given to conflict. To, say, fighting. To, say, battles. To which it would become, let us say, accustomed. And acclimated. And skilled at. Knowledgable of. Prepared for. Armed to enage. With, say, a lance. And a horse. And what is a lance, and a horse, without a hill, and an ogre. And what is an ogre, without evil. And what is evil, without Elvis and One Directions, a kind of breakfast. Of Champions!