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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Coming of Age / Initiation
- Published: 03/17/2020
Written in Blood
Born 1976, M, from Whitechapel, AustraliaGrampy’s stories were always the best. He would tell me about the pixies that lived in his attic and the brownies that stole all his socks. There were real live gnomes that tended his strawberries out back and sometimes—if he was lucky—he would catch a glimpse of the beautiful mari-morgans that swam in the bay. If my mother walked in on the tail-end of a tale-telling, she would roll her eyes and say something dismissive like: “That’s enough, Dad” or “You’ll give the boy nightmares!” Grampy would just chuckle, stamp his cane on the floor and whisper, “No denying it... It’s written in blood.”
Best of all were Grampy’s adventure trips: they were full-day excursions to the most secret of places. The locales and characters my grandfather would chatter about were like nothing you’ll find in any dull, old history book; he injected real magic into the mundane—beauty into the banal. So, when Grampy said that he was taking me to meet a goblin that lived just outside of Brixton, my ten-year-old head nearly popped off my body.
We stepped off the bus and at first, he looked confused, like we’d gone the wrong way. I was beginning to quietly despair when he glanced down at me and winked; it was all part of the ‘Grampy Show’. The door of the flat was bright blue and probably ordinary-looking to the uninitiated; we knew better. I was allowed to knock on the door and I was positively buzzing as I imagined what my grandfather had cooked up. When I heard approaching footsteps, I stomped my feet on the welcome-mat with glee.
My heart sank a little when a woman answered; she was dressed in ordinary attire and looked positively bored. Grampy and the woman exchanged words and I wondered if I’d just been duped into a plain old house-visit; if I was lucky there would at least be biscuits. Grampy showed the woman something on a crinkly, yellow piece of paper and we were invited in. The place was dark and musty and our footsteps echoed creepily.
The lady urged us forward into the sitting room and we sank into the leather of a huge Chippendale sofa. The fireplace crackled and directly opposite sat a small figure obscured by clouds of blue smoke. When my eyes adjusted, I watched as a hand the color of young oak leaves pulled a pipe from a mouth full of pointed teeth. A pair of reading glasses sat at the end of a gnarled and impossibly long nose and pointed ears grazed the wings of the creature’s weathered armchair. It was dressed like a gentleman in a crisp shirt and tweed waistcoat but the thing was as far as could be from being human. The thing suddenly leaned forward as though it were examining an insect that had just flown in through an open window.
“You’ve found me, then?”
“You did well to stay concealed for so long.” Grampy ruffled my hair with one hand and clutched his walking cane with the other.
“You’ve brought your boy?”
“Grandson.”
“He knows why he’s here?”
“No. Not yet.”
“What does that mean, Grampy? Why are we here?”
“You see, Gruknag here has eluded me for years. I’d like to say that he’s the last of his kind but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”
“Certainly would.” The goblin grimaced at me but he may have been trying to smile, I’m still unsure.
“He’s old—way too old to run anymore. Seems he’s lived these past few years in relative comfort.”
“Running is dull.”
“Yes... Running lacks a certain dignity.”
“He’ll do it, then?”
“My blood flows through his veins.”
“Do what, Grampy?”
My grandfather grabbed the handle of his cane and pulled hard to reveal a long silver blade. He handed me the weapon and pointed at Gruknag, as though I was to simply pass the creature a cup of tea. I looked at the withered, old goblin and then back at Grampy. I was shivering and I feared that I would wet myself.
“You need to be blooded. I slew my first goblin at eight.”
The footlights had been lit and the curtain was up; I was no longer in the front row of the Grampy Show—I was backstage and I was terrified. I was busy wishing I was anywhere else when I heard the creak of old bones, the whistle of steel and the squelching of pierced flesh. Grampy doubled over and dropped onto the ornate rug with our host’s blade protruding from his chest.
“For my kin,” was all the goblin said before falling to his knees, his neck proffered to me in earnest. Something overtook me in the moment and I removed Gruknag’s head with a single, cruel blow.
My stories are the best. I tell my grandchildren about the pixies that live in the attic, the brownies that steal all my socks, the gnomes that tend my strawberries out back and the mari-morgans in the bay. Regretfully the family blade thirsts for goblin flesh still and the curtain will rise once more; there’s no denying it... It’s written in blood.
Written in Blood(Jason James Parker)
Grampy’s stories were always the best. He would tell me about the pixies that lived in his attic and the brownies that stole all his socks. There were real live gnomes that tended his strawberries out back and sometimes—if he was lucky—he would catch a glimpse of the beautiful mari-morgans that swam in the bay. If my mother walked in on the tail-end of a tale-telling, she would roll her eyes and say something dismissive like: “That’s enough, Dad” or “You’ll give the boy nightmares!” Grampy would just chuckle, stamp his cane on the floor and whisper, “No denying it... It’s written in blood.”
Best of all were Grampy’s adventure trips: they were full-day excursions to the most secret of places. The locales and characters my grandfather would chatter about were like nothing you’ll find in any dull, old history book; he injected real magic into the mundane—beauty into the banal. So, when Grampy said that he was taking me to meet a goblin that lived just outside of Brixton, my ten-year-old head nearly popped off my body.
We stepped off the bus and at first, he looked confused, like we’d gone the wrong way. I was beginning to quietly despair when he glanced down at me and winked; it was all part of the ‘Grampy Show’. The door of the flat was bright blue and probably ordinary-looking to the uninitiated; we knew better. I was allowed to knock on the door and I was positively buzzing as I imagined what my grandfather had cooked up. When I heard approaching footsteps, I stomped my feet on the welcome-mat with glee.
My heart sank a little when a woman answered; she was dressed in ordinary attire and looked positively bored. Grampy and the woman exchanged words and I wondered if I’d just been duped into a plain old house-visit; if I was lucky there would at least be biscuits. Grampy showed the woman something on a crinkly, yellow piece of paper and we were invited in. The place was dark and musty and our footsteps echoed creepily.
The lady urged us forward into the sitting room and we sank into the leather of a huge Chippendale sofa. The fireplace crackled and directly opposite sat a small figure obscured by clouds of blue smoke. When my eyes adjusted, I watched as a hand the color of young oak leaves pulled a pipe from a mouth full of pointed teeth. A pair of reading glasses sat at the end of a gnarled and impossibly long nose and pointed ears grazed the wings of the creature’s weathered armchair. It was dressed like a gentleman in a crisp shirt and tweed waistcoat but the thing was as far as could be from being human. The thing suddenly leaned forward as though it were examining an insect that had just flown in through an open window.
“You’ve found me, then?”
“You did well to stay concealed for so long.” Grampy ruffled my hair with one hand and clutched his walking cane with the other.
“You’ve brought your boy?”
“Grandson.”
“He knows why he’s here?”
“No. Not yet.”
“What does that mean, Grampy? Why are we here?”
“You see, Gruknag here has eluded me for years. I’d like to say that he’s the last of his kind but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”
“Certainly would.” The goblin grimaced at me but he may have been trying to smile, I’m still unsure.
“He’s old—way too old to run anymore. Seems he’s lived these past few years in relative comfort.”
“Running is dull.”
“Yes... Running lacks a certain dignity.”
“He’ll do it, then?”
“My blood flows through his veins.”
“Do what, Grampy?”
My grandfather grabbed the handle of his cane and pulled hard to reveal a long silver blade. He handed me the weapon and pointed at Gruknag, as though I was to simply pass the creature a cup of tea. I looked at the withered, old goblin and then back at Grampy. I was shivering and I feared that I would wet myself.
“You need to be blooded. I slew my first goblin at eight.”
The footlights had been lit and the curtain was up; I was no longer in the front row of the Grampy Show—I was backstage and I was terrified. I was busy wishing I was anywhere else when I heard the creak of old bones, the whistle of steel and the squelching of pierced flesh. Grampy doubled over and dropped onto the ornate rug with our host’s blade protruding from his chest.
“For my kin,” was all the goblin said before falling to his knees, his neck proffered to me in earnest. Something overtook me in the moment and I removed Gruknag’s head with a single, cruel blow.
My stories are the best. I tell my grandchildren about the pixies that live in the attic, the brownies that steal all my socks, the gnomes that tend my strawberries out back and the mari-morgans in the bay. Regretfully the family blade thirsts for goblin flesh still and the curtain will rise once more; there’s no denying it... It’s written in blood.
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Lillian Kazmierczak
08/20/2022I honestly did not see that coming...I should have known that your sweet grampy story would end nefariously! Lol! Great piece of writing!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
08/21/2022Thank you, Lillian. That's such a grand compliment. I love delivering a nefarious ending. : )
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Aziz
03/21/2020A strong title that reflects the power of words in your story. It deserves to be read many times and some analysis.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
03/21/2020Thank you very much, Aziz. I'm so glad you feel that way. A very encouraging comment. :)
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Martha Huett
03/18/2020Loved it! A goblin killer - very imaginative. Thanks for a great read Jason :) Stay well
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
03/18/2020Thank you for your encouraging words, Martha - glad you enjoyed it. You too. :)
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
03/17/2020I hope you and yours are well during this trying time, JD, and thanks so much once again for working so hard to look after all of us. :)
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