Once, there were five magic beans.
Once, there were five magic beans.
The king is the hound and the hound is the king.
The feasters come and eat, but they don’t suspect a thing.
It’s a feast like none they’ve seen, a spectacular repast.
They never e’er suspect that the meal will be their last.
The old man watched with calm interest as the troubadour began to sing his lay. The troubadour—like most troubadours—was ornately dressed, though he stood in a humble town square amidst folk who wore solid but simple garb.
Shame and sorrow were to be her lot in life. The legacy given to her and the legacy she herself would pass on.
Once upon a time, a town that sat nestled near the foot of a mountain, surrounded by forest evergreen, ran out of food and fuel in the midst of a deadly winter. They were not poor, the people of this town. They were not foolish with their provisions. The winter had just lasted far longer than any in the realm had expected. Every season of that year was winter. Many perished.
There are flames in the distance. There is a dragon in the distance. We must ride out to meet him.
It is said that the first dragon was born of hatred. And all of the things that follow hatred. Envy and greed. Bloodlust.
It is said that the first dragon was born from a person, right here in this very village. It is said that the first dragon was born of a curse. A curse that was meant to save, for some curses can save.
This week’s story will be posted by midnight on Sunday, November 6. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s third year.
Thank you to everyone who read even one of the fifty-two stories I posted during the third year. Thank you for your precious time and your interest. Thank you for supporting my dream. Thank you for being a part of Storyfeather, Year Three!
Year Three was a challenge. The overarching theme I was aiming for was the elements and the senses, in stories inspired by and often in the form of myth and legend.
In an effort to improve my drawing skills (and further serve the stories), I joined the Inktober challenge, drawing and inking one image every day for the month of October. The Sunday images were Storyfeather-related. Now that there are over 150 stories on the site, I hope to do a bit of re-organizing to help with navigation. I also hope to do release the Storyfeather podcast in the coming year, to provide an audio version of each story. As the site develops, the core challenge will remain the same, a story a week.
A lot happened in the year three stories. Stars were incubated in the hearts of humans, a tortoise raced a cheetah, someone escaped from the underworld, a potion was brewed, a divine drop of blood was guarded, and an inventor made a map that could lead to realms unknown…
Here’s to seeing what Year Four brings. Thanks again, Mighty Readers.
Long Live Stories!
No one calls me Hildegard. I insist that all who meet me and know me call me Gard. I was once a wanderer, but I truly am a guard now. This is the tale of how and when my watch began. For I have set myself the task of watching over a child, my sister’s child, a strange child. My hope is that hers will be a good strangeness. My fear is that it will be a wicked strangeness. She does not care for me, my niece, for I broke a promise I made to her many years ago.
“This is what it looks like,” Sig said, handing over the page where he had drawn a picture of the flower he wanted the scouting party—the children—to find. He wanted to go himself, to search for the flower, to seek help in a nearby town, but he had to stay where he was needed. “There may not be many,” he warned, “this close to winter.”
“How much do you know?”
The man in the long dark maroon coat swept toward Mick. The visit was expected, but not at that hour. Mick thought the man would show up the next day. That was, in fact, why he was in the lab at that late hour in the first place. He wanted to get some things done so he would have time for the new project that his boss had dropped on him that day. Said new project being the man in the dark maroon coat.