Busted: A Tale of Zhor in Rhyme: Part 3

By Christopher Leeson 

Lu's mind, sitting there, started weaving;
Something seemed wrong, no deceiving.
She touched her own bust,
Feeling such poignant lust,
And decided 'twas time to be leaving.

At the exit she met a young stripper,
One with the stage name of 'Skipper."
At the dancing bar door,
In the tight dress she wore,
The lass needed help with a zipper.

After talking the two drank a lot;
Lu paid 'cause she found Skipper hot.
The cop-girl's eyes gleamed,
Was Skip straight, as she seemed?
Lu dearly hoped she was not.

 

Le Sigh

Man, it's been ages since anything good has popped up on any of the usual sites.  Anything that has been good hasn't been finished:(

I don't know, just seems like a genre that gets short shrift in the community.  Alas.  If anyone has ANYTHING they want to upload, let me know.

Busted: A Tale of Zhor in Rhyme: Part 2

By Christopher Leeson 

 

Lulu was slapped with probation
And given a John detail station.
Sent out with a wire 
And garbed hot as fire,
She seethed with mortification.

The whole wardrobe thing was appalling;
Those spike heels were not the most galling.
That first dress, ultra brief,
Brought the girl supreme grief.
She knew she was in the wrong calling.

It wasn't like walking a beat,
Acting the hoe on the street.
But decked out as a trick,
Lip rouge smeared on thick,
No one supposed she was the heat.

Busted: A Tale of Zhor in Rhyme: Part 1

   By Christopher Leeson

Lew Gaff was a cop on the take;
Most hookers kept clear of the snake.
He shook down the crooks, 
Kept his graft off the books,
But one evening he made a mistake.
 
Lew tried to put heat on Zhor spies,
Who looked just like pimps to his eyes.
When Gaff had them nabbed
He got needle-jabbed,
And woke up a girl half his size.

The doctors were all mystified;
Lew responded to nothing they tried.
Upon winning release,
"He" remained the police,
But assumed a false name out of pride.


Those in the the know were quite few,
So she transferred as a gal named "Lulu."
Though her temper was raw,
Cops liked what they saw,
And some got too fresh, as men do.

This girly life gave Lu distress;
Her affairs were an ongoing mess.
She liked it least well
That her figure looked swell.
Her sex one half-blind could guess.

I have heard a few people say they don't know how to post here and contribute.  Okay, here's a step-by-step breakdown!

S1  Sign up for a Google+ account.
S2  Send me your Google+ ID by messaging me through the site or sending an e-mail to vengeance17011980@gmail.com.
S3  I will then e-mail you a link to become a contributor.
S4  Follow the steps outlined in the e-mail.

Bear in mind, I am only pretty sure this is how it works as when I started this site, obviously I did not need to join it since I owned it!

If you find out differently, PLEASE let me know at the e-mail addy above!

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 17

 By Christopher Leeson




Epilogue 

FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL

Triumphs pass, songs fade, good friends go their separate ways. 

It was with heavy heart that I parted from my family on the wharf of Nawcant in the kingdom of Sulidir.  Ceann, Gannon, and I had already agreed to journey inland, to a villa within a ride of three hours from the city of Tyary Graig and rejoined Lady Elekta.  Ceann had previously let me know of her desire to leave the Fyana; I supposed that this was her first half-step in that direction.

Of the months since then there is little to tell.

Late spring yields to summer, and summer ultimately assumes the golden crown of autumn.  Cefen M'Glywess, the Lady's husband, had established his family at a comfortable country house.  Here his wife Elekta has been busy for months creating a household out of an empty hall.  Understandably, she has not afforded me a great deal of time for the teaching of magic.  I have books, but their turgid discourses have left me stultified and uninformed.  I have more time in idleness than in study.  And idleness, alas, allows one to contemplate the depth and breadth of  his regrets.

When I think about Harouck, I seethe.  Is he the disease, or is he only the outward sign of a much deeper affliction?  Cawdour had been frank in his observation that the landed lords have been dwindling in both wealth and influence since well before the rise of the usurper.  Likewise, the patriotic yeoman have lost their own status and become debt-ridden, dispossessed, and -- in many cases -- shiftless.
  
It is to the energetic merchants and the burgers that a ruler looks to for support in these decadent days.  At the heart of the old warrior class is tradition, but among these new men tradition is oftentimes a very bad fit.  The old social order relegated them to the rear of the room, and they, perhaps, do not remember their former status kindly.

Those whom Cawdour called “new men” are not all bad, of course.  The M'Glywesses and the Oc'Raighnes, in fact, number among them.  Had I been brought up in the old days I never could have won my knightly spurs.  But where the old aristocracy was dedicated to the commonweal with an intensity that was akin to religion, these new-made men too often look at government as means to a personal end.  They flatter and bribe to win support for their, oftentimes, selfish aims, and those in power do their best to please them. 

The world is in a flux of change, some say, but change has assailed the warrior class like a brutal giant.  There was a time when the soldier quested far and made new discoveries; today it is the merchant, the trader, the sea captain.  The old aristocracy, though they bear the same titles, are not like their ancestors.  What has the scions of old nobility done lately to give credit to their progenitors?  I think of our king, Cathmor, and recognize how far the demoralization has spread. 

I, too, have passed my first summer of my new life in slothful melancholy.  If Chancellor Harouck typifies our future, I will live and I will die in opposition to such man and such a future.  Is there hope?  Sometimes a bush that is sheared off by the axe can return from its deep roots.  Can it be that way, too, with the stout oak which is men's traditions?  If men of worthy motives return to the fight, the battle, ultimately, may still be lost, but is not the worth of a man found in what he attempts, not in what Fate allows him to accomplish?  Failure is the most usual result of all endeavors.  It is easy to do evil; to attain a worthy cause and win immortal fame is difficult.
 
These thoughts are not light to bear and they wear me down.  I will speak of other matters.

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 16

 By Christopher Leeson

FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
 
There was so much to think about, so much to regret. I lay awake though the long night, suffering the remorse of the damned, until the break of dawn took away even the hope of sleep.

Gannon, who had risen before the sun, joined me at first light, carrying a borrowed harp under his arm.

"Dyan," my friend said jauntily, "I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"That if this rebellion is ever going to catch fire, it has to have a hero."

"Cemion is the hero," I said indifferently.

Gannon shook his head. "No. Cemion isn't ready to inspire people yet."

“So what kind of hero do they expect?” I asked.

"A hero who can never be captured, never defeated, and never outwitted. A hero who only laughs at the worst threats of the enemy."

I frowned. "There is no such hero!"

"I'm talking about a dead hero."

"A dead hero?"

“Real heroes never die; they live in legend,” he clarified.

Thinking it over, I realized what Gannon was saying. Only the champions of saga never failed, and they died the sort of death that only served to put the seal of greatness on their triumphs. It was always the dead, never the living, who the generations looked up to.

"We have a hero," Gannon went on blandly, "if only we only give him what thing that every hero needs."

"What's that?"

"A good song."

I scowled.

"Yes," my friend persisted, "a song, like the one that I've just composed. Do you want to hear it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

With a grin, Gannon put the harp to his shoulder. “I call it 'Rodin's Men.'


"Sing a song of Rodin brave,
Too elusive for the grave.
His arm so strong, his heart so good,
He made his foemen dread the wood.

"When assessors seized their tax
Rod gave their shoulders forty whacks.
When e'er a sellsword deighed to slay,
He made the rascal rue the day!

"Rod gave his life to save a mate,
Was struck by wounds that sealed his fate.
His soul flew to the Isles Blessed,
But the hero true refused to rest.

"The mage Harouck found out too late
Rod was back from Heaven's gate!
Again he ruled the hills and dell,
From the eye of God to the jaws of Hell!

"Saluted by those left behind
Rod helped them keep the mage in line.
They made their realm the woods and fen;
The gods protected Rodin's men!"

"Rod took a task with much to do,
With trouble great and helpers few.
But never daunted by a fight,
He lent our men his spirit bright!”

Gannon put down his instrument and grinned. “It's not quite finished yet.”

I frowned. “Write any more of that silly sing-song and I'll kick Rodin back to the Western Islands myself.”

But the words were hardly out before I heard cheers and clapping coming from behind us.

* * * *

Chapter Sixteen

From the Eye of God to the Jaws of Hell