Wide-eyed children gathered at her feet. Blacksmiths, woodcutters, and glassblowers journeyed across the fjord.
Storytellers are shamans.
I’d spend a night in the stocks to hear her raspy laugh again.
She gave this lowly slave a tumble once as the bonfires died—rendered runestones in menstrual blood under a swollen moon.
By dawn her newest prospect, dark and towering, took her away under roar of Harley Davidson. My heart plunged.
Our king succumbed to madness—tongue inflamed by Camel Straights, cirrhosis courtesy of Aquavit.
Bulldozers ransacked our village for a less-than-rustic shopping arcade. It’s mostly souvenirs now—helmets with plastic horns.
Terrific character and setting description. Every line provides a new and intriguing image, so while the story may be 101 words, the images far exceed.
Thank you för your kind & generous comment, Smila. You’ve made my day.
I really like the last visual: helmets with plastic horns. I, too, live in a place overtaken by tourism. I understand. Good job.
Consumer culture: the death of storytelling? Thanks for reading, FG.