The Adventurous GIT

Another art-inspired fiction. Source   Best source I've been able to manage.  If there is an artist's direct page,  feel free to message/comment and I will update ASAP.      There were birds chirping somewhere nearby. The light of the late afternoon suns forced its way through the canopy into the hollow where the Golem awaited, peaceful and still. The gnarled fingers curled into dirt and stone, intimating their original form, uselessly. The stone lining the hollow had worn smooth over the years of rain and erosion, creating soft cascades of water that could have been soothing. Or torture .       The Golem had once had a Name. It had once had a Home. The ache to feel the cool comfort of the planetary embrace far below and the lover's caress of warm breezes far above gnawed at the Golem's soul. It held on to those memories as fiercely as it had once held on to the ground below during the Storm Times. W ho is screaming?...

     “Whoa,” was all that Jim Stefánson could articulate. He knew the resort lounge well enough, but something, some one , was new. He just knew saying the words in his head would jinx things. That the action would somehow guarantee that he would never be able speak to her, but he had to admit it to himself. That is probably the most beautiful woman I will ever see.      She was being chatted up by one of the trust-fund brats that frequented the resort. The kid was decked out in the latest cold-weather fashion, some kind of camouflage pattern based on feathers, which only managed to stand out garishly against his bright red hair. Jim tried to pay attention to the kid, but his eyes drifted back to the woman as she smiled faintly at some joke the kid rattled off, sipping her drink. Her outfit looked like it was hand-crafted from one of those fabrics that only the rich could afford to know the name of. It was a modest cut, but randomly sheer in places, givin...

More art-inspired short stories. This time, Batman set in 1459. Original Artist's gallery can be found : HERE The Crusader : "I don't follow, sir. Is he a Man of God, or some form of heathen demon?" asked the noble as the rope tightened across his chest. "Oh, he's both. He's neither. Best not to ask too deeply, My Lord," answered the highwayman, who's crude Crusader raiment (stolen, no doubt) was crusted with symbols of the wild tribes painted in blood. "If he be a Man of God, surely I can appeal to him. I am no mere Lord. I have quite a few friends in Rome. He need not suffer under these Demons which afflict him," the rich man whispered. "And what would Rome have to offer us ?" came a gravelly voice behind him. The noble's brow flushed with heat and sweat as he turned to face the monster that had attacked his caravan and killed his guards with a primal fury. Swallowing loudly, he quickly spoke, ...

     "They're all ugly, Will," Tom said in a muted voice as they pulled up to what was quickly becoming a multi-alarm fire. "But this one's got potential ."       "Zip it and move it. We've got the west side, find me a hydrant and run a line. Stephen, get a sitrep from the Chief on-scene," Will shouted over the noise of the gathering crowd and other engines.       As they all piled out of the cab, Stephen felt his stomach sink. Tom was right, this one was bad. A nine-story apartment complex had gone up, and it was threatening two other buildings nearby. Luckily it was a narrow building, no more than one or two apartments per floor. Even yards away, the heat wash was already turning his face red.       "What's the situation?" Stephen called over the roar of the flames as he approached a burly, gray-haired man barking orders.       "Chief Davidson," the fireman introduced himself. "We've evac'd the ot...

Context: Artist Even Amundsen felt that it wasn't entirely fair that the Scandinavian countries missed out on a magical school in the Harry Potter Universe, so he crafted some amazing art for the staff of this school, called Vølurheim. I've taken it a few steps further and whipped up some quick fiction based solely on my own impressions from his amazing, amazing art. The story is mine, the art and characters are his. Art by Even Amundsen      “It's tradition , Professor Hulda!” Sven protested shrilly as he levered himself up on the stretcher.      Hulda Kvænangsdottir looked up from her patient, Albin. The large boy was in his final year of schooling. Nearly a man. Nearly dead. Her fierce blue eyes glared back angrily at the Quidditch Captain as her hands continued to apply salamander oil to Albin's exposed, frostbitten skin. “Tradition!” she spat back. “Like the Healer having to save one of you foolish boys every year from certain dea...

Because this blog is not just an outlet for my religious musings, but an attempt to get me to write better and with greater frequency, I'm going to attempt to bash out a fiction short piece once a week for what I'm calling Story-time Saturday. I'm calling it that because it's my blog and because alliteration is very much a Norse thing. Crying does you no good. Tears freeze, strength warms.     Erik sniffed as the cold air seared his nose, making his eyes water. Father's words had kept tears from spilling down his reddened cheeks for most of the day, but daylight was fading and his failure was near. The wood was quiet and still around him. A thin layer of snow covered the ground, having snuck past the thick branches overhead. His eyes searched the snow for any sign of game, but it was unblemished save for his own rambling tracks. For the tiniest of moments, he allowed himself to give in to despair, to stop trying to swallow the knot in his throat. His family was...