Dryad and I

We first met in a forest and it was as unexpected as one could possibly imagine. I had been there to see wether I could find a speaking animal or a walking tree or an elf. Then I heard a female voice warning me in a language I couldn’t understand. It was an actual dryad and she pointed her stunning javelin at me with a threatening posture.

That was it. I had the opportunity I hoped for my entire life. I was seeing an actual tree nymph. Something that John Milton, Homer, and Blizzard Entertainment Company could only dream about. All I had to do was to say something nice and make a good impression. Then I could just walk home and be proud of myself for the rest of my life thinking about what I achieved today: the respect of a dryad.

She muttered something in that incomprehensible, probably elvish language and then put her javelin down and rhetorically asked me in fluent middle eastern “you’re a Calorman aren’t you”

“Typical” I said to myself “Now she probably thinks I’m a hookah smoker who read Franz Fanon books and make enslaved elves do all my chores”

“Well I am… technically… a Calormen… but I’m actually a paratrooper from the French Foreign Legion.”

“No you’re not you dum dum. You’re a hunchback. And too skinny.”

“So much for the best experience of my life!” I said to myself. I could have made my best memory. A memory I could recall every single day for the rest of my life (and eventually change the whole details by doing so). Instead I embarrassed myself. I wished I could run away and stop making an even worse picture of myself in her mind. But then things developed quite differently. Far better than what I could ever wish for.

“Well, you’re too shy and apologetic so you must be bullied when you were in kindergarten. Therefore, you are probably planning to go to a Canadian Law school so you can turn out to be a corporate lawyer working for Royal Dutch Shell. I like that! What’s your name? Mine is Gazelle”

It took my breath away. How could she be so smart and kind at the same time?

We actually spent lots of time together. I took my socks off and we swam in a lake nearby. Then we took a bus and went to a pub and drank apricot beer in a weizen glass which looked like a vase.

This story is brought you by:




pour les belges y en a plus

(Based on a somewhat true but anachronic story)

Let’s talk about M. Once upon a time there was M whom we all saw as our mentor and spiritual leader. He was white and tall and was addicted to hard liquors, british classic rock bands specially Genesis and King Crimson, and offending people of color. He was the illegitimate son of a british colonial officer of the South Persia Rifles. He naturally spoke in an unpatriotic manner which non of us could possibly imitate. Though we tried to talk offensively about Persia, unlike him, we were persians and our anti Iranian rhetorics usually turned out like a cowardly euphemism.

Being racist was not his only spiritual gift. He had a wonderful taste in seafood but unlike both natives and britons he prefered all seafood raw. His favorite breakfast was raw octopus meat and goat milk. Because of his european exotic look, his blond short hair, and his unrivaled british wit, he could have banged any native women he wanted but he was not that type of man. He was a man of god. An exorcist. A visionary.

It was hard for all of us, his loyal disciples, when we lost him. Two years ago he committed suicide. Three months prior to his unexpected death he gathered us and talked about the Bacchanalia: an important european religous ceremony. He said he always liked to attend in one but he couldn’t because he was here in rural Persia and far away from his homeland. He told us that he always pretended he had participated in european religious rites such as Bacchanalia or latin mass or Fourth of July. After his death we all pretended we had experienced such ceremonies the way we used to pretend we had sex when we were teenagers. I even pretended I served in the french foreign legion. We didn’t say all those lies just for our own sake. We had a great legecy we had to tote. A grim responsibility. But it is hard to pretend to be something you barely know. I wish M was alive.

Inspired by:


The weather was nice and the ocean was calm. So as it was expected, they picked up their slaves and prepared for the sail. Fortunately Budai was their captain and they could have had a profitable journey and though non of them knew, they were onboard with a revolutionary.

“Set sail!” Said the fat drunk Budai with his exotic Asian accent “This time we are going to plunder Britons.” And the crew was enthusiastically working and singing irrelevant songs. After a couple of weeks they finally saw a ship to pirate. But it was not British nor Dutch. “The Portuguese bastards!” Cried Budai. “We should fight to death!” As they were preparing themselves to be cut to very small pieces by the Portuguese imperial navy, a sailor who had been silent the whole journey started to yell.

“Stupid brown pirates! Stop being terrified by these oppressive Christians. We can handle them.” He cried. “All we need to do is to rearrange ourselves. Free the slaves first. They are not your belongings they are people. Then we need to get rid of laughing Budai. He treat us like his subjects. We are not subjects. We will no longer tolerate this hierarchical system.”

“Who allowed this modern philosopher onboard?” Budai shouted with sparkling eyes. But the crew was timid and ashamed and they were all quite for a few minutes. “It was I. I had no idea he would vex us with politics.” Said the American negro who actually was a veteran pirate. “Don’t apologize you old salt!” Said the Budai with his usual cheerful voice. “You saved us all!”

Even among notable pirates or veteran sailors you can find few people who know the effects of disembarking a revolutionary in the middle of ocean. But Budai exactly knew what he was doing. Right after the philosopher was dropped the Portuguese warship stopped advancing and went back home. The crew was spirited again. The American negro claimed the duffle left by the revolutionary and everyone thought it was the least he deserved. Among the belongings was a hiring poster written in archaic Persian: “Crew wanted. No experience needed. Contact Budai now.”

This awful story is inspired by This daily word prompt #fowc and also This one.

My Wife Is a Sorceress 

And anything she does is magnificent. But as a good Christian peasant I must admit that living with a sorceress can be difficult. Besides the constant fear of (literal) witch hunt, it challenges you in lots of unexpected ways. You can never guess what you’re going to see when you open the door of your very house (there’s a wide variety of possibilities from an insignificant, newly summoned imp to a full scale satanic rites with dance and carouse and ritual sacrifice)

She has her own habits. When she doesn’t feel like talking to people she turns into a cat and strolls around the village. When I was young I used to accompany her but I gradually stopped because I thought she probably prefers to be alone when she walks on the sidewalk or stares at people in the market in her cat form.

She also brews all kinds of potions all by herself. She makes them by boiling a white sticky substance that looks like glue. Her potions can help you lose weight or quit taking crack.

This awful story is inspired by “Three Things Challenge” and today things were: sidewalk, crack, and glue https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2018/07/28/three-things-challenge-28-july-2018/

Angel of Death

I was eight and had never seen someone in her deathbed. I was trying to stand straight and look more polite. Everything seemed extremely serious. The whole family was standing absolutely still around my grandmother’s bed. She was silent and not like anything remotely close to someone who is experiencing the final minutes of life. I thought she should have been screaming and squirming in agony but she was sleeping motionless. Her breath was shallow and her face looked pale and tired like a melting snowman.

My uncle bent down and checked her pulse and whispered in an exceptionally low pitched voice “She’s gone”

Everyone looked grim and polite. No one cried.

The day after my grandmother passed away everything changed. My distant relatives started to show up. Everyone was crying including the most stern people I ever knew: my father and my uncle. They all sobbed like children. It was terrifying to see polite, reasonable adults behave so weird. And the worst thing was that I couldn’t cry. Of course I was sad that my sweet, caring grandmother had left us but I just couldn’t weep.

And then suddenly I saw him. It was him. The angel of death. He was not wearing a black robe nor was he carrying a scythe. He was a jester with colorful clothes arrogantly mocking poor mourners.


This awful story is inspired by:

The Haunted Wordsmith #3tc https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2018/07/25/three-things-challenge-25-july-2018/

FOWC by Fandango #FOWC https://fivedotoh.com/2018/07/25/fowc-with-fandango-shallow/