The Forest People

By Morrigan Jonsdottir

Solveig Morgansdottir had been born in the forest and she spoke Powhatans as well as she spoke Norse. She had fifteen winters and her long red hair was congealing into dread locks, for she owned no brush or comb. She wore an open cape of red dog skin, that hung to the back of her knees, and an apron of the same. On a leather thong a small Hammer of Thor hung between her growing breasts.


He struck the hot sword with his hammer. The clang echoed all through his workshop, and escaped out his windows and onto the cobbled street outside. He imagined that the sound could travel all the way to the edges of his city. He hoped that to fellow citizens who didn't know him and didn't know his work, the sound of his shop might be like a church bell, friendly, inviting, uniting, and galvanizing.

The Thousand Men

The thousand men were silent, their eyes focused like lasers on the king Shaka in front of them. He paced back and forth, serious and thoughtful. The valley was silent. The birds and rabbits had run away after the thousand men had arrived in the valley. Occasionally one of the thousand men would rest his spear on his shield. The clatter of spears against sheilds was the only noise in that rocky valley on that cloudless day.