“You filthy knave, prepare to meet your maker”

Words meant to inspire fear fall far short of their aim in no small part due to the squeaky voice in which they are rendered. In a small grassy glen in sight of a small bustling village, children between the ages of three to seven were gathered to play heroes and villains oblivious in their frenzied play to the glowering summer sun.

The hero, a rail thin girl of about five years old, clad in cardboard armor and a discarded pot for a helmet, immediately after uttering the familiar words, thrusts a branch at the rotund seven year old villain.

“Now die” says the hero, repeatedly poking the poor villain’s flabby stomach.

Without warning, dark purplish clouds cover the hitherto clear skies, presaging a storm. As drops of rain starts to sting their skins, the children scatter, rushing for home. In mere seconds, a shorter span than would take a tossed coin to return to waiting palms, the glen is now empty save for our hero who seems to be searching desperately for something.

“Kaelle, Kaelle, where are you”

From within a small cave carved out of a fallen tree, a small voice replies.

“No need to be so loud Layla, even the gods can hear you”

The young girl rushes to the fallen tree.

“Kaelle we need to go home, a storm is coming”

A small face peers out of the hole and a boy of about five years old sticks his head out.

“ The storm is already here, come inside let’s wait it out.”

Layla rushes into the hole. The space inside looks comfortable and well-tended, with dry straw stacked on the ground with a thick blanket and a well-used pillow on one end. The hole exceedingly spacious for one now a tight fit for the two children.

“Wwwwwwhhhy do you ssleep so much” Layla said teeth clattering like a those of a rabid skeleton.”

Kaelle’s forehead creases, his thick eyebrows join forming an archless bridge.

“We can’t light a fire here, take off your wet clothes” he said ignoring her earlier statement.

Girls mature fast so perhaps in a few short years Layla would rather face the reaper’s scythe than unfrock in front of a boy, but now she took of her cloths without any embarrassment. Besides, being neighbors of similar age Kaelle and Layla had grown up like brother and sister.

Soon she was wearing Kaelle’s shirt and both children were swaddled in the blanket like new born babes. Outside the storm raged in all its virulent glory as if threatening to destroy all in its path. Although neither would admit it, a vague fear was born in the minds of the children inspired by the violent pitter patter of rain drops smashing into the roof above their heads.

“Kaelle tell me a story”

A few seconds pass, and then a practiced voice rings out.

Hear hear, the tale of the delicious food making magic pot. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, there was a magic pot. Not in the sense that it was the only magic pot in this far far away kingdom, but that it is the magic pot in which this story is about.

The boy’s voice pauses for effect while a tiny smile blossom’s on the girl’s face. This is obviously not the first time these two have told tales to amuse themselves.

Anything put into the magic pot was immediately turned into delicious food. Stinky shoes, unwashed socks and soiled diapers were all turned into gourmet meals by the magic pot for the gentry and even the king himself. The magic’s pot food was so delicious that the criticizer of foods gave it five stars.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“What’s a criticizer of foods” asks Layla

“Well, it’s someone that gets paid to eat different kinds of food to check if their good or not so that ordinary people don’t have to decide for themselves. Now stop interrupting.”

The magic pot belonged to the richest man in the kingdom, a miserly old man who had more gold in his coffers than drops of water in the ocean. The magic pot soon grew weary of making delicious food but its scroogelike owner would not let it stop.

“Your magic is to make delicious food so how can you stop” said the old man, to which the magic pot replied in a tired tone,

“Just because I can only do something doesn’t mean I must want to, that would be a cruel fate”

But the owner of the pot wouldn’t listen so the magic pot had to keep making delicious food. One day when the king of the kingdom called Alfred the wise, more for his stately flowing white beard than for his mental acuity; came to dinner, the magic pot hatched a dastardly plot. It made a delicious meal with shellfish in it even though it knew the king was allergic to shellfish. The king immediately grew sick but was saved by the royal mage who always accompanied him.

The magic pot’s owner prostrated before the king begging the king’s grace putting the blame where it rightfully belonged, on the magic pot. Even though Alfred the wise believed him, he had the old man hanged for treason so as to seize all his wealth for himself. The magic pot however, was thrown away afterall, it had shown itself to be untrustworthy.

Condemned to be garbage the magic pot lay amidst rubbish, unable to move because obviously it’s a pot and pots don’t move, even magic ones.

Years went by and the once shining magic pot grew worn and tattered, but it felt no regret, rather it felt at peace. One faithful day, a boy found the magic pot. The boy was drawn to the pot so he picked it up. He found out it was a magic pot and it could talk, the boy took the magic pot home and soon they became the best of friends, talking far into the night. The magic pot had never been happier, but the good times didn’t last, in the words of the immortal sage Azriel, if good times were anymore brief, they would be nonexistent.

Famine came to the village in which the boy lived and everyone was starving. In order to save his friend and his friend’s village, the magic pot said to the boy,

“Put anything in me and I will make you delicious food”

The boy believed the pot and asked the villagers to gather their old things, clothes, and shoes, anything they could find and put it inside the pot. The magic pot made delicious food and the villagers all wept with happiness calling the magic pot their hero.

After the famine was over the magic pot told the boy that it no longer wanted to make delicious food. However, the boy and the rest of the villagers had grown used to the magic pots delicious food and wanted to spend their days enjoying themselves rather than working to earn money to feed themselves. So, as payment for its kindness, the magic pot was forced to keep making food for the people of the village.

“Is that the end? That’s a very ridiculous story.”

“All stories are ridiculous just as all stories are not, it just depends on who is doing the telling and who is doing the listening” replied the boy.

Thunder and lightning warred in the skies through the night, but upon the earth burrowed in the womb of a dead tree, a boy and a girl finding succor in each other’s arms managed to sleep through it.