Frank felt his head drooping and his eyelids closing. He struggled to keep his attention focused on his computer. He glanced around at the tall, cloth covered walls of his cube, and wished that he could put something on them; a picture, a poster, maybe a small army of action figures for his desk. However, decorating his workspace was forbidden. He felt his head droop again. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. Carter, who worked in the next cubical, leaned over the top of the cube’s wall.

“Did you get the e-mail I sent you? The video with the people dancing at the wedding?” Carter’s voice was enthusiastic. Anytime he had a chance, he would slip onto the internet and look for pictures and videos which were not quite pornographic, but definitely of a lurid nature. The video in question was taken at a wedding and was of a girl gyrating in a short dress; he could glimpse her round buttocks as she danced. Of course, he needed to share this with someone, and Frank was that person.

“No. I have too much to do right now.” replied Frank.

“It isn’t that long, and she’s really hot. The way she moves is just mesmerizing.” Carter was becoming lost; he looked as though he were staring at the sun. “It’s a beautiful thing.” Frank groaned and then decided to check his e-mail.

“Why did you send me all this?” he asked as nine e-mails popped into his inbox.

“Slow day for me. Data is processed. Mails mailed. I’m free until noon at least.”

“I’ll have to check this out later.”

“Why not now?” asked Carter, sounding disappointed.

“Unless you want to help with my pile…” said Frank, pointing at a short tower of invoices threateningly. Carter slowly sank back into his cube. Frank looked at the list of ten e-mails from Carter and deleted them without even reading them. Then, something caught his eye; it was a message from someone named Aurora. The name sounded so familiar to him, but he couldn’t place who it was. Disregarding the chance that it was a virus, he opened the e-mail and read the contents.

I doubt you remember us. How long has

it been, Francis? Ten years? Twenty? How

long has it been since you’ve ridden a

dragon? Swung a blade? Your armor is rusted,

and your sword is broken, but still we need

you. The land is blighted by darkness, and

only you could bring the light again. The

Marmots have taken the crystal castle, and

I do not know how long we can hold out in

the hills. The White Lord has gone alone to

war; he needs you! We need you! I need you!

Frank looked at the message in disbelief as the fog rolled back from his memories. He thought about the world in which he used to play. He called it Brightsphere, and he was a king there. Well, first he was a warrior and then briefly a cowboy, but mostly he was a king. The lord of his own land of imagination. This has to be a joke, he told himself convincingly. He tried to think of who he had told about his old childhood games, but no one was coming to mind. He had no brothers, sisters, or even any cousins that visited. His childhood was pleasant, yet lonely. Until he saw the message, he had forgotten about his imaginary world, but now the details had come rushing back in vivid flashes. Quickly, he moved the e-mail into a folder that he marked ‘BS’. He wasn’t upset about this prank, but he definitely wanted to know who played it.

The day passed slowly, and the e-mails he sent to his few friends about the message from Aurora had yielded no confessions of guilt. On the drive home, he thought about Aurora. She was a princess, and she was both young a beautiful. She was literally the woman of his dreams; she was more like a friend than anything else, though as he grew older she did become more interesting. But the adventures they had were incredible! The White Lord had opposed Frank rise to power, and it was Aurora that always rode beside Frank in his wars against the pale lord. The White Lord. The name brought with it a feeling of foreboding; he was an old man even those many years ago, and he lead a ferocious army. Frank remembered the White Lord’s glassy blue eyes and their cold gaze the day that he and the pale king had a duel.

Frank was jolted out of his musings when a car horn blared; he had started to drift into the high velocity lane and nearly caused an accident. He shook the images out of his head and focused on he road ahead. Turning up the radio, he sang to commercialized rock and roll music as he drew closer and closer to home. Annoyingly, his cell phone began to rattle against the plastic cup holder he always left it in when he drove. He picked up the phone and flipped it open. He knew that it would be his girlfriend Claudia. He heard her pleasantly saying hello and asking him to pick up a few things at the market before he got home. Jeremy needed food and a flea collar while she needed tampons, Midol, and Pepto Bismol. Frank heard himself agreeing to drive a half an hour through rush hour traffic to pick up the requested items. When he flipped the phone shut, he tossed it back into the cup holder. He felt pissed off at Claudia for calling him; sure, she asked politely, but he just didn’t feel like going to the Wal-Mart.

He turned the radio up even louder and sang out of tune as loudly as he could. He needed to push away some of the anger he was feeling. The rational side of he knew that this was anger that he shouldn’t direct towards anyone but himself. He didn’t have to go to Wal-Mart, he elected to go. However, he wondered how much choice he actually had. He was thirty-five years old and he was certain that he couldn’t just dump Claudia over some errands he didn’t feel like running…

Every now and then, I like to look back at work from the past. This little poem/children’s story was based on the idea that when people grow up, they tend to forget about the magic the world once had when they were younger. I wrote it back in October of 2000 as part of a brief explosion of poetry. That was around my one year anniversary of going out with my soon to be wife, Sarah. Without further ado, here’s a poem for the whole family:

Dragon in My Underpants

In a small house
Outside of Saddleton Falls,
There sounds a scream
Which echoes through all the halls

“There’s a dragon in my underpants!”
Robert Cliffrose exclaimed,
But of course his mother
Doubted the absurd claim.

Mother Cliffrose
Has heard it all.
From a unicorn on Robert’s Nose
To a demon that stole pantyhose.

She’s heard Robert speak of angels
And talking pebbles.
He has spoken of Water Sprites and their confrontations
With cranky Southern Rebels.

But something was different!
This day was far from plain,
As evidenced when Robert
Came downstairs to explain.

Half naked and frightened,
The little youth bellowed,
as he told his story
of why his socks are now yellowed.

“Through my window it came!”
He said with a shudder.
“How did it fit?”(Mother asked rather politely)
“He used a stick of butter!”(Robert replied, not lying even slightly.)

“Robert, though I have to cook,
I will take a moment of my time,
Let the oatmeal simmer
And go take a look.”

Up the stairs,
Mother and son trotted,
As Mother Cliffrose wondered
What her son had plotted.

“Did he break a window?
No! I’d have heard the glass…
Maybe he he’ll get through this phase?
I hope this all will pass!”

Of course Mother Cliffrose spoke only to herself,
knowing fully well that there was no dragon,
nor beast, NOT EVEN AN ELF!
These things do not exist, she convinced herself.

To the door,
Where Robert’s bed is kept,
The Mother and son slowly,
Slowly crept.

With a squeak of the hinges,
there was a brief silence,
one that was not
a prelude to violence.

Nothing was there,
Not even the bed.
Not a ball glove or ball bat
Or stuffed animal head.

A stretched out pair of underwear,
Was all that was there.
A sight which brought Mother and son
Naught but dispair.

Robert Cliffrose looked up,
And smiled at his mother.
He never lied before,
And this was not another.

From that day hence,
Mother Cliffrose believed
The stories told by her son.
Regretting ever doubting any single one.

Sinking into the hot water, Marcus let his cares dissolve, if only for a short time. Closing his eyes, he felt at peace. As he was about to fall asleep, a tremendous rumbling awoke him. With a start, his muscles tensed and he sprang from the tub. A second and third tremor, then a fourth. The whole tower shook and dust fell from the rafters. Marcus slipped into a long, white tunic which clung to his damp body. Throwing open the shutters that closed over the windows, he almost immediately fell back from the sight; huge dragons! Seven of them. They skulked about the fortress and battered the walls. From afar, giants tossed boulders at the tower. This was the magnitude of an attack that Marcus had been expecting. He studied the dragons and found that they were slow moving and decomposing; they were zombies, raised by Astur himself.

Marcus slammed the shutters closed and spun on his heels. He grabbed for a chain shirt made of precious mithral rings and slung it over his torso, wriggling into it. He desparately searched for his pants when Klimt stormed into the room. His hand was missing; he had lost it long ago in a battle with a ranger and used a locked gauntlet in its place. Klimt reached for Marcus’ breast plate on the floor.

“Damn!” He shouted with exaspiration. “My wife was just tending my wounds, they suddenly the whole world starts shaking! Why’d they have to wait until we came inside?” Marcus walked over to Klimt and the orc helped him don his armor. “Does he really want that damned sword so badly?” King Astur sought the sword Lolor; when it was brought to the orcs near Moonrock, Astur’s army soon arrived, trampling all in its wake. The Elves of Moonrock put up a valliant fight, and when the army turned towards the orcish fortress, it was assumed that the army was weakening. In truth, they were originally trying to lure the orcs to Moonrock, perhaps to join the cause against the elves. King Mugluth refused to join Astur’s army, and soon became the target of Astur’s wrath. “I need a hand!” demanded Klimt, shaking his gauntlet in Marcus’ face.

Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Mugluth shouted encouragement to his troops. He drew Lolor, and charged at a nearly skeletal black dragon. The king’s horse shied away from the horrifying beast as it turned its empty eyes on the orc king. A hissing steam of acid shot out at Mugluth from the dragon’s maw. The king rolled away, narrowly avoiding the torrent of acid. He swung the sword at the dragon, but it returned the slash with a barrage of bites, ripping claws, and a smashing tail. The dragon then simply leaned its weight on Mugluth; the king’s breath rushed from his lungs as he heard the sound of his ribs cracking and his armor caving in. He stabbed the dragon again and again with the sword, but the creature simply pressed on. Mugluth felt the surge of an inky blackness tried to take him over. He nearly fell into unconciousness as the dragon rose again.

Karn rode by, shrieking at the dragon. His horsemen surrounded the creature and began punturing it with their spears while they rode about it in a circle. Mugluth struggled to his feet and found that his crown had been shattered by one of the dragon’s feet. His breath came in short gasps, although a spark of life remained in him yet. Anger filled him, and he slashed at the dragon wildly. Distracted by the horsemen, the dragon felt Lolor cut through rotten flesh and yellow bone with a powerful slash. The dragon collapsed, thrown off balance by the loss of limb. The hobgoblins swarmed over the dragon like ant, stabbing ferociously. Mugluth collapsed as the dragon’s head hit the ground. The life ebbed from him, just as it did from the dragon.

Ahorse, Marcus saw the scene from across the battlefield. He pulled at the reigns and galloped towards the scene. Klimt followed closely. When they arrived, Karn was trying to pry Lolor from Mugluth’s grasp.

“Don’t touch it!” ordered Marcus. Karn grunted at him defiantly. Klimt stepped forward, banging his axe on his shield threateningly. Karn looked about, and saw the war raging about himself. There would be other prizes, but none so grand as Lolor.

“I am king in Mugluth’s place. The sword is mine.” said Klimt as he tossed his shield aside.

“Take it then.” rasped Karn, kicking at Mugluth’s hand. Klimt looked at the sword and felt anger well up within himself. He quelled it with the simple thought that the world needed creatures like Karn just as much as it needed him right now. Like it or not, the hobgoblins were an essential part of the war effort. Karn mounted his horse again, with a sneer as Klimt took up Lolor in his left hand. Never taking his eyes off Karn, he slid the sword under his belt.

“Take it away from here.” Marcus said, “And hide it well. Astur wants it, and he’ll starve us and beat us until he has it.”

“I will take Flavish with me.” responded Klimt.

“Good. And others; ones that you trust.”

Klimt rode off the field, towards the South. Marcus didn’t watch as his friend disappeared into the haze of battle. He had enemies to kill and a war to win. If Astur did truly seek the sword, then maybe this gamble would pay off. It was possible that he could flank the army of the dead, but even then, how could he prevail over an army that never sleeps? Marcus let the thoughts pass and lost himself in the battle. The day was far from over…

Marcus’ mailed fist crushed a shambling zombie’s head; his swinging flail’s chain wrapped tightly around a second creature’s throat, and with a jerk he severed its head. His heavy armor was more than a match for their gnashing teeth and fumbling hands. The greatest armament amongst the horde was a club with a nail through it. As another one of the undead crumpled into a heap, Marcus felt a rising sense of doom welling up inside of him. The armies of the dead had been engaging his forces en masse over the last three weeks, but again and again he repelled each attack. Astur, the lord of the dead and king of the North had sent this army, along with a magical winter which had only begun to vex Marcus.“He’s going to starve us out, plain and simple!” Yelled Klimt over the tumult. Marcus glanced at the burly orc, armored in shining half plate and emotionlessly slashing left and right with a battle axe. The orc moved with powerful, fluid motions, pushing foes with his shield and lopping off heads and hands with deadly precision. A bear roared through the mob, a zombie clenched in its maw; Flavish, an orc druid had long ago ceased casting spells. Instead, the druid rode his bear, slashing wildly as the beast trampled over the moaning horde.“So what do we do? Abandon the fortress?” yelled Marcus with a sardonic smile.