First day of National Novel Writing Month. For anyone who is not up to speed on this, I am writing 50k worth of short stories, rather than one whacking great novel. Had forgotten how much faffing about is required before starting to write! Make coffee. Make star chart. Find notebook. Do poo. Etc.
Anyway, here is first short story. It isn't even a short story. It is a poem. It is like Beowulf. It is unedited. It is....BORTH.
Borth was a dark and stormy knight.
He fought to live; he lived to fight.
He had a horse, which was a charger
(you can’t get horses any larger)
He knightly skills were competent:
His armour lacked a single dent,
His sword and morals never bent,
He had a speech impediment.
Borth’s lisp was famous far and wide,
Borth, riding into battle, cried:
“I am Borth, Knight of the North!
Let us go forth! Where is my horth?”
Borth spent his free time doing quests
(a true knight never really rests)
And as he rode through things like canyons
He had a couple of companions.
Borth travelled with a lissome elf
Who rather liked to touch himself.
His face was fey, his hair was blonde
His eyes were like a limpid pond
He had a vaguely earthy smell,
He played the lute, but not that well.
His face was smooth, devoid of beard
His sexual tastes were pretty weird.
Borth thought him strange and slightly wrong
But still, he let him tag along.
Along with Wanking Elf and Borth,
They also rode with a dwarf
He had a beard, the beard was red
A helmet sat atop his head
He had an axe with double blades
He only fought if he got paid
His name was Grot, he was a sot
And like all dwarves he belched a lot.
His dwarvish tales were fucking boring;
He kept Borth up at night by snoring.
Borth sometimes thought, just to himself,
He did not like the Dwarf and Elf.
Borth and his band one morning rose
The Wanking Elf put on his hose
They aimed to hit the village fair
They heard there was a buffet there
They packed the tent and fed the horse
Then hit the road, dwarf, elf, and Borth.
They rode beside a woodland stream
Then suddenly, there came a scream!
A shot rang out. Borth turned around
To find the source of such a sound
(A shot of breaking wood, I meant
For guns have yet to be invent,)
While over his shoulder peering
Borth saw behind him, in a clearing,
A sight that caused no end of stress:
A helpless damsel in distress!
At knifepoint was the lady held -
As Borth saw her, his organ swelled.
“Fear not,” called Borth, “We’ll save your hide!”
He kicked his charger in the side
And galloped down towards the scene
The forest was a woody green
Grot followed Borth, who led the charge
because his horse was so damn large
The Wanking Elf brought up the rear.
He said, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
The rogue who held the damsel host
Pulled out his knife as Borth drew close.
“One more step,” he hoarsely roared
“And this here damsel will get gored.”
Borth shouted, “Thtop!” and raised his bow
What he was thinking, I don’t know
For terrible at archery
Was Borth. In fact, so bad was he
The bowstring got into a tangle
The arrow shot off at an angle
And thunked into the head of Grot
A really quite unlucky shot.
As Grot expired from Borth’s poor aim
The rogue rode off, still with the dame!
Borth did give chase, but no avail
His horse was tired and soon went pale
He and the Elf stopped in the shade.
Borth talked about the errors made.
“I thould have thtopped, I thould have waited.
The rogue might have negothiated.
I could have made a better thot
I didn’t mean to wipe out Grot.”
“Oh, darling,” sighed the Wanking Elf,
“You’re much too hard upon yourself.”
They left Grot’s body where it fell
(They didn’t like him, you can tell)
And carried on around the bend
The road was windy, and it wend
And there, upon the pebbled shoulder
Were rogue and damsel, crushed by boulder!
Together in death’s sweet embrace.
A tear trailed down Wanking Elf’s face.
Borth said a prayer, with heavy heart
His horse did an enormous fart
The cliff was structurally unsound
A tremor started underground
Set off from the fart vibrations -
Borth had no time for hesitations
He didn’t even have to think
He spurred his horse and rode like stink
Alas! He rode at a dead end
Thus dooming himself and his friend
A rockslide thundered down the slope
The Wanking Elf had one last grope
The rocks came down in rocky mirth
And Borth was taken from this earth.
But to this day his spectre roams
In dingy bars and stately homes
And if you keep your ears pricked up
And something’s slipped into your cup
You’ll hear the whisper, “I am Borth,
That famous Knight who’s from the North –
Except that now I’m dead, of courth.”