Sir George and the Dragon

Sir George was the bishop of Luxentot, and a fine good bishop was he… he called for his stick and he said he was sick, He would never more happy be.

Sir George had a horse named Sottentrot, and a fine good horse was he. George rode him by day and he rode him by night, until he hit a great tree.


You may be asking what has the preceding passage has to do with the story. Nothing. Except that this story is about Sir George.
Despite the things his pompous title may suggest, Sir George was discontented with his position in life. He want to be a hero… like Robin Hood. So he rode away on his horse (who, coincidentally, was named Sottentrot), and arrived in the forest that very afternoon, leaving a little monk, Lockenpot, in charge of his see.
But unfortunately, this was not Sherwood forest. This was Brackenrot forest. This was not a beautiful cool leafy wood, it was an ugly, dark, smelly, rotten place full of…things. Nasty things. Crawling things. Scaly things.
Since he wasn’t exactly a bright fellow he failed to notice the path disbanding into…nothingness. When he finally did notice that the path was gone he was… lost. He spotted a cave not too far from his current location (two feet) with a sign above it’s entrance saying “The Green Dragon—Dinner: Come in!”.
“Wow! What luck! An inn in the middle of this forsaken forest!” he said to himself. He dismounted from his horse and went inside, not noticing the dark, cold, air that was coming from the mouth of the cave.
Inside the cave, there was a long counter with several bar stools. A big red lamp hung in the middle of the room, casting a warm glow on the flagstone floor. George heard a shuffling sound from a back room, and suddenly, the Green Dragon’s bartender stood behind the counter.
He was a big, seedy looking fellow. His skin was pale and unusually shiny (the result of too many weeks in a dark cave, George thought) and his hair was frizzy and drooped at an odd angle across his face. The hands in his white gloves were short and stumpy. His long coat was too tight. And over all, he wore a big white apron with several bloody stains on it…
Puzzling. Thought George.
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Okay. So when exactly did I write this?

A very, very long time ago. I'm guessing sometime in 2003. My friend, who shall remain nameless for the sake of her reputation, helped me with it. We did it in a bored moment. Basically, though, she typed and I dictated. I'm not a very good team-player when it comes to writing stories... :P

Yes, this is the last straw. I am in no mood to type up all the things in my notebooks. The day is gray and gloomy, I am ready to be finished with my school (but am NOT finished!), and my head is heavy with fatigue from two (felt like three) classes (government and history), a National Latin Exam (I refuse to think about how I did. my guess: not brilliantly. :P), an hour of violin practice, and various household activities such as BREAKFAST DISHES (horrors! :D)...

(by the way, my only other blog-published short story is in the February archives with the title "I have a Launchcast station and my id is silmarwen14" or some trite thing to that effect. Don't raise your hopes. It's worse than this one.)

The women's book club (which my mother, sister and I seem to have joined this past week) is reading a first part of Anna Karenina for our next meeting. Sister says she'll pass on that one, thank you. Too much school. But I want to read it so much, and feel (strangely enough) that I'm willing to pile it on top of my humungous history readings, research paper, Latin homework, and so forth.

I've always wanted something that would make me read Tolstoy.

:o)