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Lords and Ladies of all the lands of Middle-Earth, may it please you, your humble dwarven scribe Fari Splitquill presents for your enjoyment the results of Stuart Williams’ Great 2003 Lord of the Rings Drabble Competition. We received a gratifying number of entries for the Competition, and they were a varied and interesting lot. You will be treated to humour, sorrow, adventure, and drama in these brief tales. (To remind those of you whose minds it may have slipped during the terrible events that destroyed Sauron and the race of Mordor once for all, a drabble is a short story that is exactly 100 words long, not including its title.) Stuart asked for drabbles set at the end of the Second Age, during the long months of Frodo’s Great Quest, as described by Mr Tolkien in his Trilogy. Tales were permitted to refer to earlier events, and you will find herein several that do so.
Our four judges, all of whom are voracious and eclectic readers, were:
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Stuart Williams, a pen collector, historian, Tolkien lover,
astronomer, and the competition sponsor
Richard Binder, a pen collector and professional pen repairer and restorer, known to many of you for his occasional contributions to Pentrace Barbara Hauck Binder, the business manager, accountant, and much more for Richard’s fountain pen repair business Kate Binder, a professional writer, editor, and compositor, author of several computing books including Teach Yourself QuarkXpress in 14 Days, Easy Photoshop 6 and The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Mac OS X
With a title in the colors of the golden crown of Gondor, and on a ground of Elvenglow blue, we present first the winner, to which our judges awarded 36 out of 40 points:
Drums In The Deep
by Marc Smith |
Having been nearly torn from his fingers by an Orc-shaft, Ori laid the now raggedly broken quill on the tomb and drew another from the depths of his hacked and blooded hauberk. The nib was uncut; he’d left the blade of his mithril-inlaid penknife deep in the neck of an orc earlier on.
“Has anyone a sharp knife...?” Ori whispered. The miniature forest of knives suddenly produced from every living Dwarf in the room caused his breast to swell with pride.
“We are too few to long resist. I must leave a record, though it be in my own blood.” |
Marc has won a brand-new Pelikan M150 fountain pen and a Lord of the Rings journal. Our congratulations to Marc!
Coming in a close second in the judging was this silver-titled offering:
Sméagol Remembers
by Myra Love |
Thieving halflings think they're rid of me, that I played my part, am gone. But I didn't follow my birthday present into the fiery mountain. Death spat me out and hurled me, bruised and burnt but breathing, onto the battered slope. I hid in a cave. Flames rolled over me. When I emerged, the halflings had left.
So I still live, but the Ring is gone, vanished into the volcano, its power lost to me, its beauty vanquished. But I remember! For a blissful moment I held it again (the Precious!) as I danced on the edge of Mount Doom. |
Myra has won a second Lord of the Rings journal.
And our third prize, an assortment of Pentrace goodies, goes to this contribution:
Midnight Ferry over Anduin — 17 July, 3018
by Terry Freeman |
Arngrim and Tor poled their raft toward the western bank of nighted Anduin, nine bundles of black clothing for cargo and their silence bought with gold. Landing ashore, their hearts were rent by a nameless fear as Tor screamed, his hand gripped by an unseen figure on the bank. Grasping his brother's shoulder, Arngrim heard a menacing whisper from the blackness ahead: “Pass the bundles, and say nothing or suffer for eternity.”
Once unloaded, another bag of gold landed at their feet. The gold bought much strong drink and temporary oblivion, but they were broken men from that night on. |
Congratulations to all of the winners, and thanks to Stuart, who so generously sponsored the contest and provided the prizes. Here follow, in no particular order, the remaining entries. All are worthy of your lordships’ and ladyships’ approbation, and we hope that all will prove entertaining. We present them in the fog-shrouded colors of the Downs and the Grey Havens.
Gift of the HTMLves...
by Marc Smith |
“You’ve contrived to get yourself lost in Fangorn, Master Meriadoc,” snapped Pippin, “And you’ve bloody well gotten me lost with you.”
“So I have. This forest has to end somewhere, I daresay one of The Lady’s trinkets ought to provide a hint. What did she say about yours?”
“All I got was this silly cloak and I had to toss the clasp for a clue, you git! You have The Pen, ask it to write out directions to the nearest Diner.”
The glowing, crystalline Pen of Lothlórien, gift of Lady Galadriel wrote, “Not Found: 404.”
“Damned Elves; everything’s always cryptic.”
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The Watcher In The Water
by Marc Smith |
The Watcher awoke. Its dreams had been troubled of late, scurrying shapes, food escaping at the last moment, a treasured salmon mousse gone green.
Dwarves. They must be back.
Without a single ripple, The Watcher eased an eye above the stagnant pool. Perhaps it was one of the local rats dabbling at the edge. They were a sure hit, fried on a stick. No, it was a group of...not-dwarves and the selection was fantastic!
Closer. Are they ripe? The last bore an oily aftertaste no, my bad, wrong seasoning. Should have marinated it! Note to self: stop watching Emeril. |
The Gall of Annatar
by Gregory D. Swain |
Sauron’s scribe shuffled through the shadows of a bleak room, his leather soled sandals making sucking sounds soon swallowed by the putrid darkness. Several orcs, two apprentice sorcerers, and a horticulturist lay slaughtered on the floor. He stopped suddenly, then stabbed out a calloused hand palm upwards into the single source of illumination, a thin beam of sunlight cast down from a high hole in the stone wall.
“You’d think,” he hissed at the swirling dust motes, “In an age of modern magical miracles, someone could conjure a spell to cast off these cursed iron gall stains from one’s fingers.” |
The Book of Mazarbul
by Ethan Brack |
The battle was over, for the first time since the fall off the Elder Days the Halls of Khazad-Dum rang with the victorious shouts of the people of Durin. Shafts of lights streamed from windows high on the walls when Balin son of Fundin called a halt. “What place is this?” he asked. A dwarf looked up from a great book the ink on his quill hardening in the dry air. “Mazarbul,” Balin nodded and seemed on the edge of saying more but as he looked through the western arch he fell silent staring off into the darkness. |
Ordering Magic by Elf-Mail...
by Marc Smith |
“Gandalf!” Elrond shouted, “How many horses do you want in the effect?”
“Oh, three should do it, although I imagine we ought to counter with nine for completeness. Do they offer flying manes, snorting fire, brimstone and the like?”
“Flying manes, yes, nothing fiercer than that I’m afraid. You want I should request a custom effect?”
“Too expensive.”
“Alright. There’s a check box here for colour; I assumed white. OK?”
“Sure. I suppose blue would be too outré for this stunt.” Gandalf harrumphed.
“Yeah...I’ve gotten the first copy finished, two more to go. Lucky for me, Arwen’s a Notary.” |
Frodo’s Lament
by Matthias Ko |
It was supposed to have been a surprise. A boat ride for their wedding anniversary. He told nearly all the townsfolk what he had planned — and they thought he was crazy. After dinner he put a blindfold on his wife and gently pushed the boat from the dock. According to several accounts, he pushed a little too hard and she sprang up in surprise then fell off the boat. People say he jumped in and tried to save her but ended up drowning himself. It was late night when Frodo heard the news. Both parents, drowned in the Brandywine river. |
Sadly, one entry was disqualified on a technicality: It is set
in a time before the events of The Hobbit instead of referring to
that time from within the time of the The Lord of the Rings. This
otherwise fine story nonetheless receives an Honorable Mention.We present this
entry in the jeweled colors of Smaug’s treasure hoard that lay deep beneath
the Lonely Mountain:
A Path is Laid, or Moonletters
by Ethan Brack |
Starlight glinted off the gentle curve of the pen held in the rough hand scarred from the forge fires, silver reflecting silver. The high arched windows cunningly worked into the side of the mountain opened onto night shrouded Erebor. With his other hand the old dwarf smoothed the map lying in front of him and gazed at out the window. The moon was rising in the east bright against the shadow that still loomed there. He steadied his hand and as the moonlight streamed though the carved frame, began to write. “Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks....” |
Thanks and congratulations to all who participated in this, the second Pentrace Drabble Contest. And, as with the first drabble contest two years ago, we leave you with a drabble penned by one of our judges. This time, however, we shall leave the author’s identity unrevealed.
Leafing through the brief anecdotes before me, I marvel at the invention of Men. They are not evil, as was the army fashioned by my brother Saruman the White; rather they are crafted to give pleasure. And that they do, yet I could wish for a firework or two to brighten the sky as I read them, for there is little of The Shire in them, and I have long admired the simple happiness of the hobbits. Well, a fresh pipe will warm my thoughts. Hmm. This one looks truly excellent, but I wonder whether a story so drab’ll do. |
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