Gorlash and Sweth

[Headless]

After taking two calming breaths – a technique learnt from their mother – Gorlash rounded the corner. Gorlash didn’t mind spending time with Sweth under normal circumstances, but normal circumstances, these were not; Gorlash had just finished an extremely long and upsetting day at The Stage.

Since they were a young child, performing at The Stage had been everything Gorlash had ever dreamt of. The dazzling lights, the puffs of smoke, the audience laced with adoration – everything about it enticed Gorlash, what with their desire for the craft of performing. And yes, they were also lured by being the centre of attention. The act. But after this evening’s events, it was hard to reconcile how Gorlash ever could have thought of The Stage in such a way.

It felt like Gorlash had barely stepped into the sitting room before Sweth’s gaze penetrated.

“Well, how did it go?” asked Sweth, a little too glib for Gorlash’s liking.

Gorlash didn’t respond for a few moments, instead focusing on a problematic shoelace. The end of the lace frayed, then snapped completely. Just another issue Gorlash would have to deal with.

“It’s over,” Gorlash replied flatly.

Sweth nodded, and enveloped Gorlash in a warm embrace. Gorlash felt Sweth’s warmth, and appreciated it, but didn’t have the energy to reciprocate.

“What will you do?” Sweth had one eyebrow raised, unsure how direct they could be without upsetting their best friend. Gorlash could only muster a word before starting to sob.

“Survive.”

Days passed before the friends again spoke. There was an unspoken understanding that words, at a time like this, were just unnecessary noise. Mental clutter. Eventually, and with trepidation, Sweth broke the silence one morning over breakfast.

“Would you like some cinnamon sticks?”

“Absolutely,” said Gorlash with certainty.

Sweth was surprised. After many sombre days, it was more than they could have hoped for. Sweth removed a few small cinnamon sticks from the bunch and passed them across the table to Gorlash.

“What are these?” quizzed Gorlash.

“Cinnamon sticks. I asked you if you would like some cinnamon sticks.”

“OH!” exclaimed Gorlash. “I thought you asked if I was excited for Season 36.”

“Ah. No – no, that’s not what I asked,” Sweth muttered with a frown.

"I'll pass on the cinnamon," said Gorlash.

 

[grumbleguts]

After taking two calming breaths – a technique learnt from their mother – Gorlash rounded the corner. Gorlash didn’t mind spending time with Sweth under normal circumstances, but normal circumstances, these were not; Gorlash had just finished an extremely long and upsetting day at The Stage.

Since they were a young child, performing at The Stage had been everything Gorlash had ever dreamt of. The dazzling lights, the puffs of smoke, the audience laced with adoration – everything about it enticed Gorlash, what with their desire for the craft of performing. And yes, they were also lured by being the centre of attention. The act. But after this evening’s events, it was hard to reconcile how Gorlash ever could have thought of The Stage in such a way.

It felt like Gorlash had barely stepped into the sitting room before Sweth’s gaze penetrated.

“Well, how did it go?” asked Sweth, a little too glib for Gorlash’s liking.

Gorlash didn’t respond for a few moments, instead focusing on a problematic shoelace. The end of the lace frayed, then snapped completely. Just another issue Gorlash would have to deal with.

“It’s over,” Gorlash replied flatly.

Sweth nodded, and enveloped Gorlash in a warm embrace. Gorlash felt Sweth’s warmth, and appreciated it, but didn’t have the energy to reciprocate.

“What will you do?” Sweth had one eyebrow raised, unsure how direct they could be without upsetting their best friend. Gorlash could only muster a word before starting to sob.

“Survive.”

Days passed before the friends again spoke. There was an unspoken understanding that words, at a time like this, were just unnecessary noise. Mental clutter. Eventually, and with trepidation, Sweth broke the silence one morning over breakfast.

“Would you like some cinnamon sticks?”

“Absolutely,” said Gorlash with certainty.

Sweth was surprised. After many sombre days, it was more than they could have hoped for. Sweth removed a few small cinnamon sticks from the bunch and passed them across the table to Gorlash.

“What are these?” quizzed Gorlash.

“Cinnamon sticks. I asked you if you would like some cinnamon sticks.”

“OH!” exclaimed Gorlash. “I thought you asked if I was excited for Season 36.”

“Ah. No – no, that’s not what I asked,” Sweth muttered with a frown.

"I'll pass on the cinnamon," said Gorlash.

I read the dictionary the other day, I thought it was a poem about everything. This seems to be a remix.

 

[Headless]

I read the dictionary the other day, I thought it was a poem about everything. This seems to be a remix.

I can't help but notice you appear to have not yet love reacted the OP, grumble.

 

[grumbleguts]

I can't help but notice you appear to have not yet love reacted the OP, grumble.

Ah yes! That's right. I haven't.

 

[Headless]

Ah yes! That's right. I haven't.

The remix idea has merit.

 

[grumbleguts]

The morning sun lent little warmth to the small cobble-stoned alley way. Shadows loitered in nooks and alcoves waiting for the afternoon sun to usher them away. In the cool sunlight a body lay.



Not just any body; this was a body that had been thrown out of more taverns and questionable establishments than broken glass. This was a body that had seen better decades. This was a body whose breath had to be kept away from open flames.



It wasn’t always like this. Once, this body was the object of songs of legend. Once, this body was willing to risk everything for the greater good. Once, this body was an absolute bloody madman.



Now, people ignored it as they passed it lying in the street. Young children occasionally dared each other to kick at it and run away.



A shadow fell over the body as an old man approached. His ancient hands held a gnarled wooden staff in a powerful grip that belied his apparent age. His face was etched with lines in an intricate network of wrinkles that could have served as a pretty decent road map to the universe. His thin, white hair fell about his shoulders like mist collected around a distant peak. He wore simple robes made from inexpensive cloth tied around his waist with frayed, greying rope. He knelt down on one knee as his intense blue eyes studied the comatose form lying on the cobblestones in front of him.



Behind him a younger man stood, trying to see around him but not daring to go any closer until beckoned. He was a large muscular fellow with enormous hands that looked as though they could juice carrots just by squeezing them. His face showed the tell tale signs of younger days plagued with acne. Either that or in his youth his face had suffered a direct hit from an incoming ballistic echidna. On his back he carried a longbow and a quiver of arrows.



The old man turned his head. “Stay there!” he said. “Do nothing until I say.”



He turned back to the figure lying on the ground, raised his staff and, muttering something about how much better the world was back when he was eighty, brought it down hard, squarely on the body’s chest with an audible crack.



The figure groaned. And turned his face from the cobblestones to see who had just hit him. He looked up into the silhouetted face of a smiling elderly wizard.



“Well Sparrow!” said the ancient man with his staff raised again. “The years have been kind to us haven’t they?”



“Pelasar!” said the astounded Sparrow still reeling from the effects of the alcohol in his system and the undefended thump to his chest. “Listen! I was always meaning to meet up with everyone. Any gems that are miss…”



“I didn’t comb the countryside searching for you for a few paltry baubles Sparrow, the world’s in trouble and… Let’s just say I’m getting the band back together. Do you still have your … err.. talents?”



“Do you still have your… err… money pouch?” asked Sparrow dangling a small leather purse from the forefinger of his right hand.



Pelasar checked his belt, he hadn’t noticed Sparrow even reach in his direction, yet what was only seconds ago, hanging safely from his makeshift belt, was now suspended from the end of Sparrow’s extended finger. If Sparrow had have been the kind of man to fill out a tax return, his fingers would have been listed under essential plant and equipment.



“Good!” said Pelasar, taking back his pouch. “Come with me.” He turned, beckoned to the young man accompanying him to follow, and said "We've got to prepare for season 36." and left.

 

[Headless]

The morning sun lent little warmth to the small cobble-stoned alley way. Shadows loitered in nooks and alcoves waiting for the afternoon sun to usher them away. In the cool sunlight a body lay.



Not just any body; this was a body that had been thrown out of more taverns and questionable establishments than broken glass. This was a body that had seen better decades. This was a body whose breath had to be kept away from open flames.



It wasn’t always like this. Once, this body was the object of songs of legend. Once, this body was willing to risk everything for the greater good. Once, this body was an absolute bloody madman.



Now, people ignored it as they passed it lying in the street. Young children occasionally dared each other to kick at it and run away.



A shadow fell over the body as an old man approached. His ancient hands held a gnarled wooden staff in a powerful grip that belied his apparent age. His face was etched with lines in an intricate network of wrinkles that could have served as a pretty decent road map to the universe. His thin, white hair fell about his shoulders like mist collected around a distant peak. He wore simple robes made from inexpensive cloth tied around his waist with frayed, greying rope. He knelt down on one knee as his intense blue eyes studied the comatose form lying on the cobblestones in front of him.



Behind him a younger man stood, trying to see around him but not daring to go any closer until beckoned. He was a large muscular fellow with enormous hands that looked as though they could juice carrots just by squeezing them. His face showed the tell tale signs of younger days plagued with acne. Either that or in his youth his face had suffered a direct hit from an incoming ballistic echidna. On his back he carried a longbow and a quiver of arrows.



The old man turned his head. “Stay there!” he said. “Do nothing until I say.”



He turned back to the figure lying on the ground, raised his staff and, muttering something about how much better the world was back when he was eighty, brought it down hard, squarely on the body’s chest with an audible crack.



The figure groaned. And turned his face from the cobblestones to see who had just hit him. He looked up into the silhouetted face of a smiling elderly wizard.



“Well Sparrow!” said the ancient man with his staff raised again. “The years have been kind to us haven’t they?”



“Pelasar!” said the astounded Sparrow still reeling from the effects of the alcohol in his system and the undefended thump to his chest. “Listen! I was always meaning to meet up with everyone. Any gems that are miss…”



“I didn’t comb the countryside searching for you for a few paltry baubles Sparrow, the world’s in trouble and… Let’s just say I’m getting the band back together. Do you still have your … err.. talents?”



“Do you still have your… err… money pouch?” asked Sparrow dangling a small leather purse from the forefinger of his right hand.



Pelasar checked his belt, he hadn’t noticed Sparrow even reach in his direction, yet what was only seconds ago, hanging safely from his makeshift belt, was now suspended from the end of Sparrow’s extended finger. If Sparrow had have been the kind of man to fill out a tax return, his fingers would have been listed under essential plant and equipment.



“Good!” said Pelasar, taking back his pouch. “Come with me.” He turned, beckoned to the young man accompanying him to follow, and said "We've got to prepare for season 36." and left.

NOW WE'RE SITTING ON TOADSTOOLS WITH THE SAME GROUP OF FAIRIES

 

[grumbleguts]

NOW WE'RE SITTING ON TOADSTOOLS WITH THE SAME GROUP OF FAIRIES

It's an excerpt from a novel I am writing (which in keeping with the thread), has the season 36 addendum.

 

[Headless]

It's an excerpt from a novel I am writing (which in keeping with the thread), has the season 36 addendum.

Pelasar gets it. Much Season 36 preparation is required.

 

[Cadsky]

I also like goulash

 

[Headless]

I also like goulash

No, no - I'm referring to Gorlash! Of Gorlash and Sweth fame!

 

[Cadsky]

No, no - I'm referring to Gorlash! Of Gorlash and Sweth fame!

Do they make good goulash in Sweden?

 

[Headless]

Do they make good goulash in Sweden?

I'm not sure I'm the best person to answer that, Cadsky. Perhaps you'd like to tag 1-40 other posters from Sweet in this thread.

 

[Cadsky]

I'm not sure I'm the best person to answer that, Cadsky. Perhaps you'd like to tag 1-40 other posters from Sweet in this thread.

Wosh can I have some tagging powers please?

 

[Headless]

Kennedy Parker

 

[Kennedy Parker]

Kennedy Parker

Don't tag me in this drivel non-contributor

 

[Headless]

Don't tag me in this drivel non-contributor

What was your favourite part of the OP, KP?

 

[Kennedy Parker]

What was your favourite part of the OP, KP?

Thanks for reading my post on the anonymous online text-based football discussion forum bigfooty.com.

Because that's when I knew this rubbish had ended.

 

[Headless]

Thanks for reading my post on the anonymous online text-based football discussion forum bigfooty.com.

Because that's when I knew this rubbish had ended.

It is amazing how much can be accomplished if no one cares who gets the credit

 

[Headless]

"I'll pass on the cinnamon," said Gorlash.

That's a funny line, isn't it, PMBangers?

 

[PMBangers]

"I'll pass on the cinnamon," said Gorlash.

That's a funny line, isn't it, PMBangers?

Funny was the first word that popped into my head upon reading. I had a little chuckle, smiled, and exclaimed "that's vintage headless right there"

 

[Headless]

sante, here's the Gorlash and Sweth thread, as requested.

 

[sante]

I don’t think this will ever end up in landfill

 

[Headless]

Greenery, you see this?

 

[Greenery]

Greenery, you see this?

I did, but I did not feel that I had permission to contribute, this tag changed everything!

"I'll pass on the cinnamon," said Gorlash.

That's a funny line, isn't it, PMBangers?

I do appreciate this.