Morgen was the daughter of the King of Avallach and Nyneve, the Queen you would likely know of as the Lady of the Lake. She who holds my twin, Caledfwlch, from whom I am forever bound yet separated.
Caledfwlch was hurled into the lake by one of the knights, and recovered by Nyneve. I was carried away by Morgen and then I vanish from the tales. While all mourn for the lost weapon, my healing magic may have been greater. Arthur needed me in the end.
But no one remembers the scabbard.
Whine whine whine, wain. You don’t hear Excalibur bitchin’.
Mary watched with fascination as the large spider webbed up her meal.
Difficult to tell exactly what sort of insect it was, perhaps was it sort of small beetle or large louse? The spider, having industriously captured it in her web, was busily poisoning it with digestive enzymes and scrambling over and around it, beginning the process of cocooning and preserving. This one would almost certainly become the host for her babies, once properly prepared.
Mary rapaciously watched the motion within the web. Regardless of the taxonomies involved, both spider and insect looked delicious to her—a western European hedgehog.
Blood pooled around my feet as the hull metal popped and pinged, quickly cooling off. The Martian atmosphere is vanishingly thin, but that was by far the least of my problems.
The blood is from a structural member of my ship currently piercing my thigh. Not arterial, but I certainly wasn’t going to survive this, no chance, not out here alone. My ship’s atmosphere was leaking out through a massive hole and I watched the porthole frosting over as the temperature dropped.
I started to laugh when I saw the light shining through the frosted glass. Maybe I was mistaken.
“I would like to die on Mars. Just not on impact.“–Elon Musk
Leonard enjoyed playing with his train set quite a lot. The trickiest bit was near the end of a long downgrade, where the train had a tendency to pick up far too much speed. Leonard had to be particularly alert and ready switch off to a side rail to save the day. Fortunately, the switching went without a hitch, and the train barreled past on its new southern course. He leaned against the switchbox and watched his train roll past, whistling happily. Seven minutes later, the two trains collided head-on at full speed with more than hundred passenger casualties.
Inspired by this image and title from this song. Hmm, several other scenes to work with out of those lyrics…heh heh chortle.
Incidentally–In the real WWI–LZ 38 also attacked Dover and Ramsgate on 16–17 May, before returning to bomb Southend on 26–27 May. These four raids killed six people and injured six, causing property damage estimated at £16,898.
But I promised a superpowers genre tale for Flush the Fiction, so here you go:
He billed himself as the Human Fireball. Generic name for a weak pyrokinetic. All that he could really do was light things he was touching aflame. He could light himself too–but that cost him a fortune in clothes, so he usually didn’t.
Lorelei was tending bar that night when he got drunk and lit it. All of those flammables—first thing, she tripped the sprinkler system. After the fire was out, she took his face between her hands and kissed him deeply.
When he crumbled to arid dust, she swept him into a dust pan. Don’t upset an aquamancer.
Oddly enough, this tale was inspired by this image:
That turned up on Google’s first images page with the search term “image”. That’s random, no? (Hell No.)
Just a toy for your child, a plaything. Cheap, plastic, made overseas. Your toy shop carries many similar toys, sold in bargain bins by the hundreds, all of their myriad varieties. You can even impulse-buy one on your way out of the store. Suitable for the smallest youngsters; too large to be swallowed or a choking hazard, soft enough to offer no threat of injury. Rubber Duckies are a bath-time staple, have been for many decades.
But you never stopped to consider if “waterproof” means we can’t be drowned.
Inspired by this photo plus my sick mind. And Ernie, o’course.
I have a nice ocean view, looking out from my cliff-top dwelling. It used to run in the neighborhood of a mill and a half, back when money still mattered. The real estate agent even told me that a minor celebrity from the 40s owned it once.
I’ve got that marvelous storage space, enough food to last me several years.
The ocean of zombies roaming around down on the beach can’t get up to me. Not after I cut the only access, the suspension bridge, from this end.
But I am running terribly short on shells for the sniper rifle.