“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five ten minutes or less.  Consider them “public practice,” like that guy who shoots free throws in the park.  Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.

The Enchanter’s Arm (Part 2)

As an enchanter of more-than-usual ability, it was simple for him to build a hand and an arm to hold the pen. He imbued it with more-than-the-usual amount of power, and hardly daring hope he put the arm on the table. Lo and behold, it picked up the pen and began writing!

The enchanter stopped going out. He spent his days and nights in a feverish passion, reading as fast as the magic arm could write, abandoning food and sleep altogether. Sacks of letters from his love arrived at his doorstep, but he shunned them for the magnificent letters produced by the magic pen. His love’s letters soon became curious, then irritated, and finally worried, but he read none of them.

Meanwhile, the enchanter realized that the arm could write faster if it was supported by a shoulder, and the shoulder would be more steady if it was supported by a spine . . .

–

One Autumn morning, the enchanter’s (second) cousin finally arrived in person on his doorstep. She’d heard rumors about his sickness, and feared to find her lover on his deathbed. The servants tried to stop her, but she would not be denied and finally forced her way into his study.

The sight stopped her cold.

A metal statue of her sat at the desk with pen in hand, writing faster than any human could. It was grotesquely exaggerated; where she was bony, the statue was round and full. Where her bosom sagged, the statue was pert and high-breasted. Where her complexion was blotchy, the statue shown golden-pink with simulated health. Only the eye sockets were empty, showing black and bent where the enchanter had tried over and over again to recreate the eyes of his lover. He had been unable to succeed.

On the floor by the desk was the enchanter. He glanced up but did not recognize her, and went back gibbering to the endless stream of parchment that flowed from the statue’s fingers, reading the words before the ink had dried.

But the enchanter’s (second) cousin did give up. Such was her love her him that she took a step toward the statue and tried to remove the pen from its hand. There was a sharp sting as the enchanter attacked her, frail and weak from starvation but strong with the ferocity of the insane. She left.

It is, of course, a mortal sin to create an unlicensed golem in the form of a human. The city mourned the loss of the enchanter with more-than-usual ability, but the fire made for a lively spectacle that night in the town square.

(prompt: Write a fairy tale.)

(Man, and I thought the last one was dark.)

“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five ten minutes or less.  Consider them “public practice,” like that guy who shoots free throws in the park.  Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.

The Enchanter’s Arm (Part 1)

Once upon a time there was a young enchanter of more-than-usual ability who lived in the city. He fell in love with his beautiful second cousin (which was allowed, even encouraged back in those days), and she fell in love with him in return. However, he had to leave the city to go to school far away, and so they carried on their courtship overseas. A great many letters soon filled the mailbags of those skippers unlucky enough to be running between the two cities.

The young enchanter loved getting letters from his love. They would come in a great sack whenever a ship landed, and he would try to restrain himself to a single letter per day. Inevitably he lost his resolve and tore open the entire bag, devouring over and over again the words of his lover while waiting for the next ship to come in. He lived this way for several months.

The enchanter was not lazy in writing back. He wrote once, twice, even three times daily to his distant (second) cousin. What he was lazy about, though, was washing his hands after finishing his enchanting work for the day. He often forgot to clean the magic ether off of himself before writing or reading his love’s letters, and the residue began to build up upon his favorites.

One morning he woke to a single brand-new letter laying on his desk. It was the most beautiful, transcendent, magnificent love letter yet . . . but there was no ship in the harbor. Puzzled, but unwilling to question his good fortune, he responded with even more passion than usual and dropped the his response in the mail box.

The next morning there was another letter on his desk, and the next morning another. No one knew where the letters were coming from. Finally the enchanter stayed up all night, watching his desk to learn the truth.

For hours, nothing happened. Finally a beam of moonlight came in through the window (moonbeams are a special kind of magic, of course). As soon as it struck the enchanter’s pen, the pen jerked upright and began writing feverishly on the page. When the moon faded an hour later, the pen dropped, and there it was—a fresh letter from his love!

The enchanter was astounded, and blessed his luck for the miracle. He devoured the new letters every morning for the next week, until all of a sudden they stopped.

The enchanter moped all morning, miserable and with a terrible headache. Finally, at lunch, he realized what had happened: the new moon had come the night before. With no light, there was no letter.

And then the enchanter had an idea.

(prompt: Write a fairy tale. (Yeah, I’ve been on a fairy tale kick.  I love writing these because I don’t have to explain shit.))

(Also, I’m totally sure that the enchanter’s idea won’t backfire on him in ironic fashion.  Totally.  Sure.)