By Jack F. Dunstan
Thaddeus pulled the steam-powered vibro-sword from the buzzing corpse of the fallen mechano-dragon and stood atop the brassy heap. Beyond the dead bronze, a man clad in leather with a pencil-thin mustache that curved up into curls at either end stared back, pointed the dark magic-augmented blunderbuss at Thaddeus.
“So, this is what it comes too!” The man with the blunderbuss hissed. “You and I, your sword against my shot-thrower.” He made a gesture. “It’s the end for you. Stand still and it won’t hurt as much.”
“Henri”, Thaddeus looked on blankly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Eh?” Henri looked up.
“Your lines.” Thaddeus managed.
“Cut!” Yelled the director. In an instant, the dragon, the set and everything else disappeared in a puff of purple smoke. As the director turned to the magician, the old man began to quiver. “What happened just now?”
“I uh, just lost my concentration for a moment.”
“Just lost your. . .” The director shook his head. “Start again, from the top.”
“No, no, no, no, no.” Another director yelled, burying his face in his hands, then gesturing wildly at the frozen set. “It’s not real enough! It doesn’t pop!”
Another director shouted: “What kind of character is this director supposed to be!?”
“Mr. Merlin, what is a director?” A child asked the master of the puppet show.
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Jack Dunstan hails from Wales, UK.
Labels: Jack F. Dunstan