Deep in Gallia Aquitania, the site of modern day Aquitaine, the Auscii tribe was experiencing the Iron Age. More importantly, it was experiencing a long, devastating winter. Their town, Elimberrum, was completely snow and ice covered.
Dumnorix exited his dwelling late that particular winter. His parents had high hopes for him with his name literally meaning king of the world. Dumnorix was a strong warrior. His new iron sword was lighter and longer than his bronze one, and it greatly increased his reach, since he already had longer than average arms.
As a result Dumnorix did not mind fighting wars, but he was particularly tired of fighting that long winter. Hunger was all around. Some of the tribe was considering moving to one of the coasts to get easier access to fish, but Dumnorix loved his tribal grounds. He did not want to leave. Thinking all this while walking to relieve himself, he stumbled over uneven snow, and his knee punctured the snow and packed it down.
Dumnorix didn’t think much of it. The next day he take the same path to relieve himself before it got dark. The day had been warmer, and the sun had lit the hope of spring in many hearts. Dumnorix looked at where he had stumbled the day before. He noticed a piece of grass sticking through the snow. It looked like a sword thrust from the earth up through the snow. From that day forward, Dumnorix would tell the story of the start of spring, and named individual pieces of grass: blades, for they looked like swords poking through the snow. Later, when the Romans conquered the region, they would bring the expression “blade of grass” all around their empire. As a result Dumnorix does not live on as king of the world, but his story is still told everywhere.
About the Creator
Noah Glenn
Many make light of the gaps in the conversations of older married couples, but sometimes those places are filled with… From The Boy, The Duck, and The Goose
Keep reading
More stories from Noah Glenn and writers in Fiction and other communities.
More Than a Puppy
His first word was puppy. His first animal sound was “woof-woof!” His first stuffed animal was a border collie instead of a teddy bear. Year after year went by; the little boy asked for a dog for his birthday and Christmas. Year after year, he heard “wait until the family cat dies.” Then the year finally came.
By Noah Glenn12 months ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
The Whispering Woods
In the heart of the Whispering Woods lay a deserted village, its identity lost to the passage of time. The residents, shrouded in secrecy and seclusion, exchanged hushed stories of sinister entities lurking among the towering trees. Deep-seated superstitions reigned supreme, and fear clung to every corner. It was said that those who ventured too deep into the woods never returned, their very essence ensnared by the malevolent forces that resided within.
By TheCanadianView about 6 hours ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.