The Pipes Produce

This short-story was written for me by blainearcade in return for providing a writing prompt. Please join me in rewarding their effort by heading over to their blog and reading The Pipes Produce.

Excerpt: The mayor, one Herman Lefawn, of Wheatlow, a small town that farmed golden grains for the governing bodies of the Grand Chivalrous Alliance, had endured much in recent weeks. He’d endured his gardeners accidentally opening a hole to a cavern older than sin directly beneath his impressive homestead (all he’d wanted was a simple spot for his chestnut trees), he’d endured the hideous arcane creatures that had slithered out from it, and he was now enduring the worst music he’d ever heard. It will all be over soon, he thought. Better screeching pipes than dragon roars. Smile and nod. Can I even manage both at once through this din? Continue reading →

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